Isabella
by suitablyironicmoniker
Summary: In the Cornish countryside of 1804 England, a foreign visitor brings Isabella to reconsider the inexplicable occurrences she had always taken for granted.
1. A Dream

_My hope is this doesn't appear to be too sharp of a change in direction for those of you who have read my other stories. Jane Austen played a role even in my high school fiction, and Incunabula relied heavily on the European history I've always found fascinating. I completely understand, however, if historical fiction is not to everyone's taste. _

_Familiar elements belong to S. Meyer._

* * *

**PART ONE: CORNWALL**

_So exalted was her imagination, so confused were all her thinking faculties, that she stared with wild doubt whether then, or whether now, what she experienced were a dream._

_Camilla, A Picture of Youth  
__Fanny Burney__  
_

**one**

She started awake as though woken by a sound—the soft tread of footfalls, the bark of a knock against the bedchamber door, the bated breathing of someone watchful and close. She held her own breath, waiting for the recurrence of whatever had awoken her so abruptly from a fitful sleep.

But there was no sound other than the steady patter of rain against the rooftop, the occasional rush and hum of the wind joining the soothing noise. Only, as she lay staring at the beams of the ceiling, she could not find it at all comforting, however familiar. Her hands were restless beneath the sheets, her breathing agitated.

Isabella was certain something had awoken her. She knew not what—a dream, a sound, some half-remembered worry that had weighed on her mind before she had tucked beneath the counterpane earlier that evening. Her eyes grew only more wakeful and wide as she gazed at the ceiling, searching for an answer she could not grasp, the beat of her heart accelerating as though she had already risen and raced down the shadowed stairs.

She groaned as it occurred to her this was a foregone conclusion; she could not remain abed, so restless and nervous, and she certainly could not sleep with such agitation curling through her limbs. She threw back the sheets and counterpane, cautious of the floorboard next to her bed that had always creaked beneath her weight. Her pace was slow and wary as she approached the bedchamber door, listening for any sign that the only other occupant of the house was awake.

She was soon on the landing, eyes fixed on the door across the corridor, a falsehood ready on her lips should she be found awake and out of her bed at this hour. But no noise stirred from behind the door, and Isabella was soon padding down the narrow staircase to the ground floor, her hands fisted in the long skirt of her cotton nightdress.

She paused in the entryway, as if reconsidering the impulse that had brought her to this point. But after a moment's contemplation, she was bending to tuck her feet into leather boots and pulling a heavy woolen cloak over her shoulders.

The front door creaked, the softest cry of a sound, and she glanced over her shoulder, fearing that any lie that occurred to her now could not possibly be believed. But there was no sound from above stairs and she soon darted through the open crack into the darkness of night.

Isabella flew down gray stone steps to the raked pebble path that led to the cottage door, not daring to look back and spy any observance of her departure. But when she reached the waist-high gate she paused, lifting her head to gaze in either direction down the dark lane. Though the moon was half full, it was obscured by the clouds from whence the rain fell; she could see very little besides the shadowed rise of the hedgerow that bordered the lane. Pulling up the hood of the cloak, she turned instinctively towards the sea, uncertain of what she sought, and equally uncertain of what she might find.

The wind grew more violent as she hurried down the Coast Path, the hum and rush soon bellowing and howling around her hunched figure, the cloak whipping against her legs. But she did not hesitate, a feeling of anticipation pulsing in her chest like the beacon of a light house. She was somehow certain something was waiting for her—as impossible as she knew such a thing to be.

The shadow of the dense hedgerow soon gave way to the open plain high above the sea, the wind whipping into a full fury with nothing to impede its wake. Isabella hesitated, head lifted, eyes narrowed against the lash of rain, fruitlessly trying to make out her surroundings. Memory could have led her forward, this path as familiar to her as her own home. But the darkness was so absolute she could not discern the sea she knew to be directly east; its sound was nearly immersed in that of the wind, the rush and roar so mixed that she knew not where the crash of waves ended and the furious skies began.

She pressed forward, the pulse in her chest no less urgent for having passed the buffer of aged hedgerows. Though she was soon shivering in the folds of the heavy cloak, it did not occur to her to stop and turn back, something inexpressible pushing her on. It was only when she reached the cliff edge, the sound of the ocean her compass, that she paused again, her breath labored, tendrils of dark hair slick against her cheeks. But her vision was no better for being nearer the sea, her only indication that she was arrived her own instinct and the gulf of inky black before her.

Abruptly, a cloud shifted above and the barest sliver of moonlight illuminated the craggy coast and the tumult of ocean before her. But Isabella could not be transported by the sight of crashing waves crested by froths of white, for the feeling of anticipation had been suddenly overcome by the feeling of being watched.

She stilled, fists tightening in her skirts, eyes rapidly scanning the horizon. She knew not what she should see, only that she suddenly felt like prey, hunted. Had she sensed a movement, just out of sight, momentarily revealed by the weak shaft of light above? Or, in that uncanny but utterly normal manner, had she sensed someone's gaze upon her person?

Once, she had seen a mouse frozen in a field freshly scythed, as if pinned into place by the shadow it knew not to be a hawk. Its black eyes had been wide and fearful, furred body rigid with fear. She had pitied the creature at the time but now felt an unexpected affinity for its circumstance.

Then, just as suddenly, the feeling passed. The wind even seemed to calm, the roar of the ocean distinct in her ears. Isabella shook her head and peered around, her shoulders falling from where they'd nearly risen to her ears, her hands loosening their grasp in the folds of her nightdress.

Her lips curved into a grimace before she huffed a sigh of exasperation. _Such fancies_, she thought to herself before gathering up the damp fabric of her cloak and turning back to the path.


	2. Cooler

_Thank you so much for reading and reviewing. _

* * *

_Her head then began to grow cooler, as the fever into which terror and immoderate exercise had thrown her abated, and her memory recovered its functions._

_Evelina, or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World  
__Fanny Burney_

**two**

Isabella was unsurprised to find Sheil seated next to the hearth in the kitchen, her hands busy with peeling potatoes, her head bent in apparent focus. A rushlight glinted in a wrought iron holder on the small table at her side, indicating she had risen long before dawn. The fire in the hearth was not stoked high, the embers merely glowing enough to warm the room. Pale morning light shone through the lead panes of the windows opposite the fireplace; though this light was not bright, the sky ever filled with unrelenting clouds, the room did not give the impression of darkness due to the snowy color of the whitewashed walls. Isabella briskly crossed the kitchen and reached for one of the aprons that hung on simple wood pegs next to the back door. She uttered a wary greeting as she slipped it over her head and knotted the ties behind her back, "Good morning, Sheil."

It was as she suspected, Sheil's voice gruff though she did not lift her head from her task. "I saw the mud on your boots, child."

Isabella's mouth quirked at this final word, for it was a subtle reminder that Sheil was her elder, once her nursemaid and now her companion. However many years Isabella might gain, she would always be a child to the gray-haired woman pretending a rapt fascination with her potatoes.

After the slightest pause, Isabella decided it was not wise to protest the term, not when the day had only begun; she imagined there might be many more transgressions she would need Sheil to overlook. Her voice was light as she responded, turning to the large table at the center of the room, intent on returning to the dried herbs she had been sorting the prior day. "I had a strange dream," her gaze remained fixed on the loose thyme and sage she had plucked from the garden the week prior, "and went for a walk."

Sheil gave up any pretense of attending to her chore, her expression shifting from suspicion to outright dismay as a huff of outrage blew past her lips. Isabella's eyes rose, an involuntary reaction to the sound, and she could not look away as she saw the play of emotions crossing Sheil's countenance, clearly struggling to restrain her ire. To her relief the older woman simply exhaled noisily, as if weary of her charge's constant idiosyncrasies.

Isabella's attention returned to the herbs beneath her fingertips but she soon found her gaze rising again at the sound of Sheil's voice, as if the former nursemaid could not restrain herself from registering some verbal disapproval. "Just like your mother." She was already lowering her head to the knife in her hand, quickly shucking at the rough outer skin of the gnarled potato in her opposite fist.

Isabella's lips quirked again for while she did not entirely agree with the sentiment, she saw no use in arguing the point with her companion. And what's more, her sojourn into the lashing storm at the dead of night was quite like something her mother would have done. "Aye," her lips curved in a brief smile. "Just like her."

Isabella only lifted her head from bundling the bunches of herbs and neatly tying them with twine when she heard the tap of Mrs. Hammet's fist against the back door. It opened directly after for it was never latched, heavy pattens tapping against the stone floors as she slipped inside. "Good morning," she greeted the two ladies in sedate tones as she shrugged off her shawl and reached for an apron.

Sheil's response was gruff and Isabella's disproportionately light but Mrs. Hammet either took no notice or thought it best not to comment, silently moving to the array of iron pots and pans hanging above the hearth.

Nearly finished with her task, Isabella briefly enquired as to whether either Mrs. Hammet or Sheil needed her assistance. "Oh, no, Miss Swan," Mrs. Hammet demurred, her response never anything else. Though she was not able to come daily, Mrs. Hammet had never thought it proper that Isabella do more than embroider and practice pianoforte. Such idleness was not possible, however, following the death of Isabella's parents so many years before; there were no funds to continue to keep a retinue of staff at the cottage—and she saw no harm in doing things for herself.

"Ye needn't concern yourself with such as this," Sheil added as she reached for another potato in the pail. "We'll manage supper if you're still aiming to visit the market."

Isabella nodded, smiling as she saw Sheil's mood had lifted. "I'll see to the garden while I wait for Mr. Connor." Mrs. Hammet's eldest son was to retrieve her later that morning on his way to Penzance. Like his mother, he lived only a short distance from Swan Cottage on land that had been owned by Isabella's father. Their rents, as well as the annuity from her father's military pension, were her only income.

"Don't forget your bonnet—" But Isabella was already through the door which Mrs. Hammet had entered minutes before, a basket over her arm, the smile on her lips unfaltering.

Though the sky was white with a pall of high clouds, Isabella initially squinted upon gaining the out of doors for it was still much brighter than the shadowed kitchen lit only by the flickering hearth and weak rushlight. She paused on the brick steps that led down into the garden, breathing deeply of the rain fresh air.

The garden was enclosed by a wrought iron fence that was mottled with patches of orange red, rusted through where the constant damp had eroded the iron. Given there were few wild animals that threatened the small store of vegetables and herbs that grew among the blooms, neither Isabella or her mother had prioritized restoring the disintegrating metal.

Close to the stone walls of the cottage were the roses Renée had prized, the thorny branches delicate where new spring growth had sprouted. Beyond were neat rows of vegetables, cucumber, squash, parsnip, turnip and potato, all in various states of growth. Mixed within were the stalks and bushes of hardier herbs, rosemary, loveage, yarrow, sage, and thyme, with mint in clay pots to prevent it from overtaking the soil around it. Bordering the array of vegetables and herbs were the flowers Isabella's grandmother had cultivated and which Renée had lovingly maintained after marrying Major Swan and settling in his homeland: delphiniums, hollyhock, honeysuckle clambering through the wrought iron twirls of the fence, the green spears of daffodils, and thorny gorse. Little of it was blooming now but there were buds and shoots everwhere; spring was imminent.

As she moved into the garden, Isabella found the long sleeves of her walking gown were more than sufficient against the mild weather, the blue cotton darkening when she brushed against wet leaves. Mud squelched beneath her boots, evidence of the storm the night before, while excess water dripped steadily from the eaves of the cottage.

Despite the mud and damp, Isabella's heart felt light for this was one of her favored places, perhaps more so than any other at Swan Cottage. For it so reminded her of her mother, and the many hours Isabella had spent with her there as a child.

Isabella stooped to a battered rose bush, pulling a set of gloves from the pocket of her apron before carefully lifting the thorny, fragrant branches. Buds, tightly twirled, had just begun to form, near hidden by wide, deep green leaves. A smile crossed her lips for she could recall the blossoms nigh opening beneath her mother's touch…though she knew this was just a fancy of childhood imagination.

The smile faltered as she thought of the strange impulse that had pulled her from her bed the night before, and Sheil's surly claim that morning. Isabella quickly shook her head and returned to setting the plant aright, carefully tying the new stems to the thicker, older branches in the hopes of preventing the gangly growth from becoming bowed and trampled. She did not agree with Sheil but saw no purpose in belaboring the point with her companion. Isabella thought herself nothing like her mother, bearing only a passing resemblance to the miniature which rested on the fireplace mantel in the front sitting room. Renée's bright loveliness was apparent even in the simple strokes of the portrait, her amber curls piled high, teeth glinting behind a coquettish smile.

That was how Isabella preferred to remember the sparkling force of nature that had been her mother, happy, flighty, and full of charm. Even with Charles' frequent absences on the Continent and elsewhere, her lightness had rarely faltered. Isabella touched the restored buds of the rose bush, her mind full of memories of Renée, briefly wondering if her recollection truly was childhood fancy…

Of course, it was difficult to know for certain since Renée had died shortly before Isabella's twelfth birthday. For all of Renée's abilities to nurse others back to health, nothing had been able to restore her to her former self after she had learned of her husband's death.

Isabella stilled, fingers hovering above the closed bloom, brown eyes blank and staring. Her memory of that day was still vivid, and it was one she could not attribute to childhood imagination. Her eyes sank shut as she recalled how her head had been bent over the keys of the pianoforte, weary of practicing but certain it was too soon to beg off from playing. The crash of dishes had so startled her that her fingers had fisted over the keys, the discordant notes groaning in her ears as her head jerked upright.

She had flown from the bench, terrified of the cries she could hear from the corridor, pale with fear. She had frozen upon finding her mother on her knees, the tea tray a mess of broken dishes and cutlery before her, the rug beneath stained with amber water. Renée was sobbing, her features riddled with torment, her hands fisted in her hair. "Charles!" she had cried, the word a howl. "Charles!"

"Maman…" Isabella had begun, unable to understand why her mother should be so distraught for her father—for he was miles away, stationed in Ireland these past months, his letters arriving with the post every week.

But it was as if Renée did not see her, tears streaking down her face, her body trembling where she kneeled over the broken dishes. "Oh, no…oh, God, no!" she moaned. Sheil had soon appeared, even then unable to move as quickly as she once had, her gnarled hands on Renée's shoulders, attempting to soothe the hysterical woman.

It had taken some time to ascertain that Renée believed Charles was in trouble, and nothing anyone said could convince her otherwise. She had only grown calm when given a dose of laudanum, drifting into a troubled sleep in the bed she shared with her husband when he was home on furlough. Isabella had never known what to make of the fact that several days had passed before the black-edged letter arrived from Charles' commander, full of condolences for the loss of such a fine soldier.

She shook off the memory, forcing herself to move down the muddy path to the next rose bush, quickly stooping to begin righting its bedraggled branches. She vastly preferred to remember her mother contented and smiling—or even ecstatic and vibrant, as Renée could not help being whenever Charles was home. Isabella could picture the easy smile that had graced her father's features when he was in Renée's presence, their hands frequently joined upon the dining room table.

Despite the warmth of this memory, she could not fully dismiss a tendril of unease, too similar in nature to what she had felt the night before.

She continued tending to the garden, righting what had been battered by the storm, plucking away weeds and snails, and, when she was certain neither Sheil nor Mrs. Hammet were passing the open kitchen door, tucking two carrots into the pocket of her apron.

Isabella straightened as she discerned the approach of the Hammet's dray horse and cart, lifting a hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she approached the fence in expectation of Mr. Connor's arrival. But the cart did not appear, the lane empty, and a line flitted between her dark brows as the minutes ticked by. Just as she was wondering if she had mistook the clatter of branches against the stone walls of the cottage, or the rough whisper of the sea breeze for the steady trop of horse hooves and creaking wagon wheels, the cart finally pulled into view.

As she observed Connor hop down from the bench seat and loop the reins around the hitch, she realized her mind was already decided. "Good day, Mr. Connor," she called. "How do you do?"

"Fair enough, Miss Swan, fair enough," he nodded in greeting, tipping the soft cap on his head as he crossed the few steps to her side. "Be ye ready for the market?" She could hear the hesitation in his voice for she wore no bonnet, her basket heavy with herbs and a few root vegetables.

"I do apologize," Isabella's smile was genuinely contrite. "I don't believe I will go as far as Penzance today." She tilted her head. "The market in Mousehole should suffice, I think."

Connor nodded before offering, "I can take ye as far as the village."

"Oh, no," Isabella shook her head. "I—" she hesitated, her gaze lifting to the sky, escaping the curiosity in his countenance. "I need the air."

"Is Miss feeling well?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Connor," Isabella smiled. Her brown eyes shone as she added, "You know I prefer the out of doors."

"Aye, Miss," Connor smiled in turn. "Enjoy your walk," he called as he swung back into the cart.

Isabella watched as the cart continued down the muddy lane before turning back to the cottage, shoulders squaring as she knew his wasn't the last bemused reaction she must respond to. "Was that Connor?" Mrs. Hammet asked as Isabella ducked through the low kitchen door and set her basket on the table.

She nodded, her gaze on her hands as she tugged off her gloves. "Yes, but I asked him to go to Penzance without me." She lifted a shoulder as she smoothed her hair with a negligient hand. "'Twas only boredom that led me to think I should go to the market there—the market in Mousehole should have all we need."

"Aye, and so I told ye when ye first asked to travel to Penzance with Mr. Connor," Sheil grumbled. "If you'll but wait a moment, I'll don my bonnet."

"Oh, no, Sheil, there's no need," Isabella protested as she lifted a fresh basket from a hook near the door. "You know the pace I prefer—and I know your knees could not withstand it."

Sheil was still half-risen from her stool near the hearth, her faded eyes wide and affronted. "Why, I used to slow my pace when ye were in leading strings!"

"Aye, I know, Sheil," Isabella allowed. "But 'tis a damp day and I also know you'd prefer to stay by the fire."

Sheil slowly lowered herself back onto the stool, hands on her knees, her offense subsiding. Then, recalling her duties to her charge, she loudly bid, "But wear your bonnet, child! Even if the sun is weak—"

"Yes, yes, Sheil," Isabella acquiesced. "Of course."

She could still hear the grumbling of her companion as she passed from the kitchen into the corridor and towards the front of the cottage. Quickly, she raced up the stairs to her bedchamber and, finding her bonnet, jerked it over her head before hurrying back through the door.

Isabella was soon through the house and outside, hesitating on the front steps. By day, her surroundings were far less ominous and mysterious, the sky cloudy but light. The yard before the house was bordered by the same wrought iron fence that circled the garden at the rear; here however, there were only a few hardy lavender bushes, the light partly blocked by the tall hedgerow running the length of the lane directly beyond the fence. The track was narrow and rarely used, leading west and inland, to St. Buryan, as well as east, to the Coast Path. Inhaling deeply, Isabella gripped her basket tightly and hurried down the path to the gate, re-tracing the steps she'd made only the night before.


	3. Spring of Nothing

_Thank you so much for reading and reviewing._

* * *

_The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies, Robert Kirk_

**three**

But then, Isabella did not turn south on the winding Coast Path which followed the jagged Cornish shore as far as St. Levan. Instead, she turned north, her demeanor light as she swung the basket in her hand, the ribbons of her simple straw bonnet loosely knotted beneath her chin. It was too late in the morning to encounter drovers herding their sheep to the Tuesday markets, though evidence of their passing was to be seen in the manure that marked the path, and the mud churned into a mire by dozens of hooves. Isabella briefly pondered purchasing a side of mutton but quickly dismissed the notion as too extravagant. Perhaps a few small birds to be roasted by Mrs. Hammet instead, the bones then used for soup.

She was distracted by these thoughts as she approached Raginnis' fields, the high hedgerows giving way to the crossed beams of wooden fencing. Surreptitiously, she turned her head, scanning the path for the presence of others, brown eyes wide and watchful. But there was no one, no tardy drovers, no farmers intent on reaching the market, no ambling young ladies like herself, enjoying a day free of rainfall.

Her steps were swift and purposeful as she crossed to the field, a smile spreading over her lips as she saw the shaggy bull had already begun approaching the fence. The massive creature was placidly chewing a mouthful of rich green grass, the bulging muscles along his shoulders and neck shifting beneath his reddish hide as he slowly ambled towards Isabella. He bowed his head as she reached the fence, like a gentleman expecting her call. She could not help a soft laugh at the thought.

Isabella reached into the pocket of her apron, retrieving the carrots she had tucked away there that morning. She did not hesitate as she offered the gnarled vegetables through the rails of the fence, unafraid as the enormous bull's breath warmed her fingers. She had often heard tell that Raginnis' bull was ill-tempered and unpredictable but she had never experienced as much.

"No, you are a gentle thing," she murmured, briefly brushing her hand against the bull's soft, damp nose. The bull simply snorted in response before tossing its shaggy head, as if in agreement with the young lady lingering before it.

Realizing she would have to create a tale to excuse the length of her absence if she dawdled much longer, Isabella turned from the bull with a sigh and returned to the Coast Path. But it was not long before the smile had returned to her lips, simply joyful to be out of doors, a hint of spring in the sea air, the green of the countryside bright and rich with the recent rainfall. She had always been calmed by this, by the wide open expanse of the rural coast; it was as if she could not be confined by walls and windows, only at home here beneath the gray skies, a breeze tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet.

The path turned ahead, briefly angling away from the shore. A copse of wooded brush arched over the muddy lane there, young ash trees studded with a few tall poplars, bristly rowan bushes crowding close and low. The trees were a haven for local birds, and were usually filled with chirps and calls. Isabella didn't realize she was holding her breath until she was beneath the branches, as if unwilling to disturb the unexpected silence she found in those shadows. Her pace slowed, glancing up to the gray branches of ash, and higher, to the straight boughs of poplars. But there was no flutter of raven or gull, as if all the birds had simply fled.

Isabella unthinkingly quickened her step, hurrying towards the brightness beyond the stand of trees, white and glaring in contrast to the shadowed wood.

Though the only sound was her own breath in her ears, she realized with a sudden certainty that someone was coming—though she heard no footfalls nor tramp of horses hooves. The hair on her nape was alive, like heated coils against her skin, her heart stuttering against her ribs. She turned at the same moment that the gentleman spoke. Only later would it occur to her that he appeared as surprised as she, a flash of something she could not identify crossing his expression.

But she was soon too distracted to recall this briefest of reactions, for though his words were innocuous and apologetic, she was captivated by his voice and fascinated by his appearance. "I hope I didn't startle you." He bowed low, for which she was thankful as it gave her time to compose her features, closing her gaping mouth and attempting to appear less dumbfounded. His accent did not bear the Cornish burr to which she was accustomed, the lilt foreign and yet somehow familiar.

"No, sir," she quietly responded as she cast her eyes to the ground, unable to meet his gaze as he straightened to his full height—though she could not imagine why this should be as she had never been timid.

The gentleman continued, his voice rich and smooth. "I was hoping you might be able to tell me where this road leads."

Isabella managed to raise her gaze, forcing her breath to steady as she again absorbed the beauty and richness of his appearance. His powdered features were even and young, his jaw defined, the darkness of his brows a stark contrast to his pale complexion. The lace at his wrists and collar, the velvet of his waistcoat, and the gleaming leather of his boots all marked him as a gentleman, his erect posture and refined speech emphasizing this truth. Isabella swallowed, realizing he was still awaiting her response. "To Mousehole."

It was only then that she noted no horse stood hobbled behind him, her brow furrowing as her gaze shifted from his handsome features, vainly seeking a steed in the distance. What was more, no hat covered his dark hair or hung from his gloved hands, both marks of his status that were surprising in their absence.

"Is it much farther?" he asked, forcing her attention to return to him. There was a brief pause before the question and Isabella felt a sudden certainty that he was searching for something to say, as if looking for an excuse to continue speaking to her. The thought filled her with a strange thrill, her eyes wide as they again fell to the shadowed ground.

"Only another mile," she answered, wondering why she was having such trouble breathing against her stays, her palms damp with sweat around the handle of her straw basket.

The gentleman nodded his head in acknowledgement and Isabella found herself unable to move—though she knew she should curtsy and continue on her way. As the seconds passed, she realized the gentleman was equally disinclined to return to his journey—though his stance was much easier and unaffected than her own. Swallowing, unable to help her curiosity, she finally asked, "Did you lose your mount?" Though she knew Sheil would chide her for her boldness, Isabella told herself she was unlikely to encounter such a gentleman again and could not resist extending the brief exchange. She had little doubt that he was simply a traveler passing through, likely lost on these country lanes.

The gentleman paused before responding with a wry laugh. "Ah, yes—the beast bolted—startled by a hare." His black eyes shined as he held her gaze. "Likely too accustomed to the city."

Isabella was unaware of how the fascination that had been apparent in her expression abruptly faded, her lips briefly pressing together before she dropped into a swift curtsy. "I see." She nodded as she turned to continue down the lane, calling over her shoulder with obligatory politeness. "Good day."

But the gentleman fell into step beside her, matching her brisk pace with long, easy strides. "I do beg your pardon, Miss, but as this was the direction in which I was traveling—"

"Of course," Isabella nodded courteously but did not meet his gaze, her eyes fixed on the road before her.

He seemed not to note the shift in her manner, his tone easy as he asked, "Do you call Mousehole your home?"

Reluctantly, Isabella shook her head, brown eyes briefly darting in his direction. Though she had determined to take her leave after discerning the lie he had told about his horse, she found herself biting her lip, longing to ask him a question in turn. Finally, the words burst forth, her curiosity too great.

"And where are you from?"

"Châteauroux," he answered quickly and seemed startled—as was she—by the realization that this time he had told the truth.

"You are French," she responded, the word a surprised statement rather than a question. While she knew it to be her mother's native land, and that her father had often been stationed there with the British army, she had never met any other native of that place. Further, with the turmoil that had followed the revolution, it had become increasingly rare to hear it spoken of without concern or ire. At the very least, this accounted for the familiarity she felt upon hearing his accent.

"It is south of Paris," he acknowledged, bowing his uncovered head. "My family had lived there for many years."

Isabella's curiosity was again piqued by the indication that this was no longer the case but she forced herself to hold her tongue. She was already filled with an awareness of the length of their conversation given they had not been formally introduced, her cheeks warming at the thought of what Sheil would say should she know.

Fortunately, the gentleman seemed not to note her consternation; indeed, his gaze was fixed on everything but the young lady at his side, steadily scanning the surrounding countryside with a focus that was somehow relaxed and yet thorough. Isabella's brow furrowed as she was certain he could not be looking for his supposedly lost steed; the moment he'd spoken the words regarding the bolted horse and the unexpected hare, she had known it to be a falsehood.

She found herself speaking though she had intended to repress her curiosity, the words rushing past her lips without caution. "You'll be able to hire a mount in Mousehole." When he did not respond she nervously added, "Or a carriage. There is a coaching inn—though I believe the coach only departs on Wednesdays."

His black eyes finally turned from the distant copse of rowans and wild gorse north of the path, as if recalling her existence. "I see," he replied, lips pursing as if her words were not to his liking.

"If 'tis what you require," Isabella finished, then blushed at how pointed the statement appeared, her curiosity apparent.

"Yes…" The single word lingered in the air and his attention drifted back to their surroundings. Flustered, irritated with herself for feeling such self-consciousness, desperately wishing the heat in her cheeks would subside, Isabella increased her pace, hoping the distracted gentleman would fall behind. Perhaps he would attribute her near trot to a country girl's rough manners. Perhaps he would think she was late for an engagement and needed to hurry to ensure her timely arrival. The reason did not matter—she simply had to escape his company.

But somehow he matched her pace without at all appearing to exert himself, his strides ever easy and long. Though she was soon breathing deeply against her stays, lips parted, cheeks flushed and warm, he appeared unaffected, his pale brow naked of sweat. Isabella could have sworn in frustration.

"If I were to continue on this road," he finally asked, breaking the silence that was only marked by her strained breathing, "which towns would follow after Mousehole?"

Isabella found she must slow her pace to respond, her irritation apparent as she glanced in his direction. "Newlyn and Wherrytown—and then Penzance."

"Ah," he nodded, his dark head tilting—and she was again struck by the notion that he already knew the answer and was simply seeking to continue their conversation.

"And I will find an inn in Mousehole?" The gentleman prompted her again and she could not help her gaze lingering on his countenance, wondering if he was mocking her. Otherwise, she could not escape the notion that he was trying to prove he had been listening to her. To her confusion, she could only see benign curiosity in his expression, no raillery evident in a sly smile or muffled laugh.

Isabella finally nodded, "Yes, on the Parade." But why should he care of her opinion? Her simple walking dress, unadorned by any bright print or embroidery, and nearly covered by a serviceable apron, was ample evidence of her modest means. She resisted lifting a hand to her bonnet, which she knew to be naked of feathers or trimmings, her chestnut hair simply pinned at her nape. She was unaccompanied by a servant, her leather boots thick with mud as she disliked wearing pattens, prefering the brisk pace discarding them allowed.

They were rising a crest beyond which the village would spread below, the harbor directly ahead. She suppressed a start of surprise that they were nearly arrived, the time having passed far more quickly than she had realized. With words of farewell on her lips, Isabella turned to face the gentleman, pushing aside vain wishes that she might have discovered the reason behind the oddity of their encounter.

The gentleman, however, was already speaking—and it took her several seconds to register the meaning behind his words, for his manner was ever easy and unaffected, languid curiosity glinting behind the sweep of his black lashes.

"Do disagreeable bulls always turn so docile for you?"

As Isabella made sense of his question, her eyes flared wide as her lips wordlessly parted. She could feel the warmth of blood surging up her throat, her cheeks suddenly hot with a mix of embarrassment, surprise, and confusion. How had he been observing her for so long when she had so carefully tried to ensure she was alone in her childish errand? If he was a stranger to the neighborhood, how did he know the reputation of Raginnis' bull? Had he been following her? Why had she failed to hear him when Sheil had always claimed it was impossible to surprise her? And what purpose had he in asking her this question, so deliberately flustering her?

Isabella could not think how to respond to his question and therefore ignored it, simply curtsying as she blurted the words she had been planning to say before he interrupted her. "We're nearly there and I'm going to the market while I expect you'll want the coaching inn which is in the opposite direction." The statement was a garbled stream, her hands shaking as she dropped into another clumsy curtsy before swiftly darting down the road.

There was a fork immediately ahead and she hurried to the left, listening with dread and anticipation for the sound of his steps behind her. But she did not hear him follow and she could not bring herself to turn her head to see whether he watched her go.


	4. Wicked

_One of my Christmas gifts last year was a subscription to the OED. I was surprised to find that the word 'lanolin' didn't come into common usage until the 1880s. The things you learn! Thanks for reading and reviewing._

* * *

_Don't be so puffed up with your own perfections, as to imagine that, because other persons allow themselves liberties you cannot take, therefore they must be wicked._

_Pamela: or, Virtue Rewarded  
__Samuel Richardson_

**four**

"Child! Do ye not heed my voice?"

Isabella started and the needle tenuously gripped between her forefinger and thumb slipped from her hand, disappearing into the folds of her skirts. Having had the unpleasant experience of finding lost needles while dressing or disrobing, she instantly jumped to her feet and smiled to see the needle slip to the floorboards, a tendril of white thread trailing from its eye.

"Isa!" Sheil appeared in the open door of the front sitting room, one gnarled hand braced against the frame, faded blue eyes vaguely panicked. She only used the shortened form of Isabella's name when she was genuinely worried; it was the same name Charles had always used for his daughter when he was home on furlough.

"I'm so sorry, Sheil," Isabella apologized. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"I called your name four times," the nursemaid panted, short of breath from having hurried from the rear of the house.

"I-I—" Isabella had no response for she hadn't been playing music or lost in a book. If anything, she should have been eager to escape the mending she only ever took in hand when she no longer had a choice, every petticoat in her wardrobe trailing torn hems, every stocking marked by gaping holes.

"Aye, aye," Sheil nodded as she turned back to the corridor. "Lost in a daydream, I'd wager—as ye have been since Tuesday sennight." She gestured, an impatient motion. "One of Bannion's ewes is wedged in the fence again. Ye know you're the only that can calm the animal enough for us to free it."

"Yes, of course." Isabella nodded, quickly setting aside the garment she'd been mending and following Sheil through the door. She trailed the stooped figure of the older woman down the narrow corridor, past the front stairs to the kitchen. She was unsurprised to see that Mrs. Hammet was not bent over the hearth, steadily turning a roasting bird or stirring a stew, likely having darted outside the moment she heard the distressed bleats of the ewe.

It was as she suspected, though it was clear her delay meant the poor ewe had nigh exhausted itself in the meantime, its wooly body sagging where it stood. Mrs. Hammet hovered near, a crock of hog's lard cradled in her arm, head bent as she tried to soothe the aggravated sheep with soft murmurs. On the other side of the wrought iron fence, Mr. Bannion had clearly just given up attempting to wrest the animal from between the wrought iron posts by force, his hands braced on his hips in exasperation, his hat askew on his head. His gaze lifted as he sensed Isabella's approach, his expression growing wary as he spoke, "Begging your pardon, Miss Swan." He straightened his hat. "I'd think this creature would have learned by now that reaching for the clover ain't worth it."

"It's no trouble, Mr. Bannion," she replied as she approached the drover and his ewe, brown eyes falling to where the animal's fleecy neck rested against the wrought iron posts. Mrs. Hammet silently stepped aside, though Sheil's voice called behind her.

"I cannot see how she could have gotten in, but somehow fails to get out!"

Isabella stooped, lowering a hesitant, gentle hand to the ewe's nose. "But it's so tempting, isn't it?" she murmured, the words not loud enough for Sheil to hear though Mr. Bannion gazed down at her lowered head suspiciously. Isabella did not note his stare, too focused on the weary sheep, gently running her fingers past its ears and around its neck, trying to ascertain how tightly it was trapped.

The ewe's breath blew out against her skirts, a tired sound. "Aye," she softly agreed. "You likely might have stood here forever." She could see it was more panic than size that had led to the sheep becoming caught. As she ran her hands around the sheep's fleecy neck once more, it almost seemed to come to understand this as well, gently pulling back from her grasp and freeing itself from between the fence posts.

Mr. Bannion and Mrs. Hammet gasped simultaneously but Isabella simply lifted a nonchalant shoulder as she straightened to her full height. "She only needed to calm herself a moment."

Mr. Bannion's expression was inscrutable as he tipped the soft cap on his head. "Thank ye, Miss," he muttered before turning away. The sheep had already skittered ahead of him on eager hooves, clearly relieved to be free.

Isabella watched him go, hoping he knew she'd spoken honestly—it truly wasn't any trouble, however long it might have taken her to respond to Sheil's calls.

The nursemaid had a differing opinion of his demeanor, however, her voice baleful as she said, "Ye think he'd be more grateful." Isabella frowned, uncertain this was fair.

"Well, it certainly isn't convenient for him to discover one of his flock missing, and to re-trace his steps only to find one greedy ewe isn't simply dawdling or stuck in a ditch."

"Ye are generous, child," Sheil muttered as they returned to the cottage. "Just like Mrs. Renée." Isabella could think of no response and so remained silent as she wiped hands dirty with wool-oil on an apron hanging near the door. She hesitated before continuing through the kitchen to the corridor that led to the front of the house, watching as Sheil settled herself on the chair near the hearth.

"May I help with anything?"

But Sheil was shaking her head before the words had fully escaped Isabella's mouth, gesturing with a negligent hand towards the door where Mrs. Hammet had just appeared. "No, child, we're nearly finished with the baking."

Isabella nodded, uncertain why she felt such reluctance to leave the presence of Sheil and Mrs. Hammet. Perhaps it was because the sitting room was so quiet, the silence infrequently interrupted by the clop of passing riders or creaking carriages. Of course, she thought, solitude had never concerned her before. Perhaps it was because her mind was lately so distracted, her attention frequently straying from whatever task she knew she should be focused upon—though she was loath to admit the reason…

Isabella paused as she reached the threshold of the sitting room, eyes caught by the sun that had begun to shine, a golden light casting through the two casement windows facing the lane. Her eyes shifted to the mantel, where the miniature of her mother rested alongside one of two silver candlesticks; these flanked a clock of ormolu and bronze Renée had brought with her from France. Isabella drifted to the empty hearth, her fingers rising to the mantel edge; her gaze lifted from the familiar image in the miniature to the gilt-edged looking glass that hung above the fireplace, intended to reflect and intensify the candle light. Brown eyes framed by dark lashes gazed back. She was briefly surprised to see her complexion was still fair despite how often she failed to don her bonnet. She tucked a stray strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, wondering how she would look if she had a maid who could dress her hair in the latest style, with short curls framing her temples and forehead.

"Ugh!" Isabella pushed away from the looking glass with a sudden exclamation of frustration, disgusted with herself. She did not have a ladies maid and thinking about such fancies would not make it so. She had always been content with all she had; why should she long for anything more now?

Just as she was gathering her mending in her hands and taking a seat in the upholstered armchair nearest the fireplace, a knock sounded on the front door.

She was on her feet when she saw Sheil quickly pass the open door of the sitting room, a gnarled hand waving at her to remain where she was. She heard the front door creak open followed by the sound of shuffling feet and masculine voices. "Good day, Miss Cadwallader! How do you do?" The bright words rang out in greeting, addressing Sheil by the surname Isabella had never been able to pronounce as a small child.

"Very well, Mr. Eldritch, very well," Sheil replied. "Mr. James," she added as she escorted the two men to the front sitting room, their greatcoats draped over her arm.

Isabella curtsied as the two men turned through the door, the elder smiling and eager as he swept his hat off his thinning hair, his youngest son less exuberant though equally polite. "Miss Swan, I trust you are in good health?" Mr. Eldritch asked as he dipped into a brief bow. They both wore riding clothes, though Mr. James sported a more fashionable double waistcoat.

"Very well, Mr. Eldritch." She gestured to the settee opposite her armchair. "Please have a seat." The village councilman did as she bade, sinking into the creaking cushions with a bright smile, his son soon following. "I do hope you have time for tea?" While Mr. Eldritch had been only slightly acquainted with her father, he had been exceedingly kind after Charles' death. Though she did not require the charity that was his responsibility to manage as a village councilman, his sentiment did not allow him to disregard the plight of an orphan. Though she had been ignorant of it at the time, she later learned he had written many letters attempting to find a surviving relative after the deaths of her parents, and had ensured the maintenance of the agreement with the Hammets that secured their continued rental of the Swan farmland.

"Yes, yes, of course," Mr. Eldritch's smile had yet to fade from his rosy face, the blue of his eyes bright as he enquired again after her health and that of Sheil, who had disappeared to hang their coats and fetch tea from the kitchen.

"Very well, Mr. Eldritch," she smiled. "Though I believe the ewe I helped free from the fence this morning might be the worse for wear."

Mr. Eldritch laughed in response. "Another one of Bannion's errant sheep?"

"But of course," Isabella smiled again before launching into the story, painting the details in lights both ridiculous and absurd: Sheil's panic, Mr. Bannion's exasperation, Mrs. Hammet's failed attempts with hog lard, and, at the center of it all, the bedraggled sheep. Mr. Eldritch was soon roaring with laughter while his son, who was generally less inclined to revelry, was fighting chuckles as well.

"Mr. Bannion should truly keep closer watch of his flock," Mr. James shook his head. He had the fairness his father had boasted at a young age, his blond hair long around his ears, a faint mustache over his lips.

"It was no trouble," Isabella shook her head, recalling Mr. Bannion's surliness as he'd departed. Then, changing the subject, "I trust you are stopping in on your way to see Mr. Lawrence?"

Mr. Eldritch's elder son had married a lady native to St. Buryan, four miles west of Mousehole. She was the only daughter to a gentleman with extensive properties in the area, hence Mr. Lawrence relocating to her home rather than remaining in Mousehole. Swan Cottage was en route to St. Buryan and Mr. Eldritch had made a habit since his son's marriage of calling on Isabella whenever he made his way there for a visit.

Mr. Eldritch nodded, glancing to the door as Sheil returned laden with a tray of cups, saucers, silverware, a steaming urn, and the spouted pot for tea. A wooden caddy filled with Bohea leaves rested in the midst of the tea service; like her mother, Isabella had never bothered to lock it, implicitly trusting both Sheil and Mrs. Hammet.

"I hope Mr. Lawrence is well?" Sheil asked as she placed the tea service on the small cherry table set between Isabella and the two Eldritch gentlemen, before taking a seat herself.

"I'm certain we'll find this is so," Mr. Eldritch nodded.

"And do you bring news from Mousehole?" the former nursemaid asked. Isabella grinned in Sheil's direction as she arranged the tea, unsurprised to find her companion eager to hear the latest gossip.

Mr. Eldritch was happy to oblige. "Mr. Jenks traveled as far as Perran Downs for the funeral of the blacksmith there—apparently their vicar has been ill this past month and there was no one else to perform the service."

"And he traveled safely?" Sheil asked as she took the proffered cup of tea Isabella was extending.

"Oh, yes," Mr. Eldritch nodded.

"Though he complained of encountering a violent rainstorm upon his return," Mr. James added.

"Yes, yes," his father nodded at this additional detail, lips pursing with thought before he took the cup and saucer of tea Isabella gestured were his. "Ah, and we've had a newcomer to Mousehole!" His eyes grew bright as he spoke, though Isabella wasn't certain if his pleasure was in conveying the news or with the news itself.

Mr. Eldritch went on, "A Frenchman by the name of Maçon." Though he did not appear to note how Isabella's porcelain tea cup rattled in its saucer, she did not dare raise her gaze, knowing Sheil's eyes would be fixed upon her, missing nothing. "I'm given to understand he's lost an expensive horse—"

"Stolen, more likely," Mr. James wryly added.

"Come, James, always so ill-willed?" His father briefly chided him before continuing, "He has no valet but turns quite a fine heel—and insists on searching for the horse himself though I'm sure any number of the local children would take up the task for a shilling or two."

"Perhaps fearing the finder might keep the discovery to himself?" Sheil asked.

"Ah, now you sound like James," Mr. Eldritch laughed. Isabella couldn't help a faint smile at his good nature.

"It must be an exceedingly fine horse to inspire such a devoted search." The wry tilt of Mr. James full lips indicated his suspicion; Isabella cast her gaze to her tea, unwilling to give any indication she suspected his doubts to have some basis in truth. After all, she had no proof other than her own conviction.

"Rumor has it," Mr. Eldritch continued, "that he's a nobleman of some sort."

"If only given his manners and garb," Mr. James added, the envy apparent in his voice.

Mr. Eldritch leaned back, "If that's the case, he's escaped Bonaparte's nonsense just in time."

Isabella seized on this observation, expertly diverting the conversation to the Corsican causing such upheaval on the Continent, shifting the topic from village gossip to politics. The foursome soon finished their tea, Mr. James taking a pinch of snuff after settling his cup in its saucer on the cherry table, while Mr. Eldritch made various motions indicating they must be on their way. Isabella rose, thanking them both for calling, while Sheil creaked to her feet and offered to fetch their coats and show them to the door.

Isabella had bent her head to her sewing by the time Sheil returned to the sitting room to clear the tea tray. She did not dare raise her eyes to the knowing older woman, gaze fixed on the needle and fabric in her hands. Sheil, however, did not need Isabella's gaze to gain her attention. "I never could stand that young Mr. James."

Isabella's eyes flew from her mending, briefly wondering if Sheil hadn't noticed the surprise she'd failed to hide when Mr. Eldritch mentioned the newcomer; she had no doubt it was the same gentleman she'd met on the Coast Path the week before. But Sheil was simply shuffling towards the settee the Eldritches had been occupying, easing down onto the cushions and leaning back with a weary sigh. "He always looks as if he smells something foul."

Isabella's laugh was partly one of surprise as well as amusement. "Perhaps food crumbs caught in his mustache," she answered, her attention returning to her needle as she drew it through the torn hem she was mending. She had never held a high opinion of the younger Mr. Eldritch, having witnessed too many instances of his lack of sensibility from childhood; whether kicking a stray cat from his path or discourteousness with clerks and servants, he had somehow failed to inherit any of his father's kindness and good nature.

"Mayhap," Sheil nodded, lifting a hand to straighten the mob cap covering her gray hair. "But that mustache ain't thick enough to catch much in the way of food."

Isabella's laugh was all amusement now, but it abruptly cut short as Sheil added, "You perked up at the mention of that Frenchman."

Isabella would have given many things to curtail the blush which was heating her cheeks, her hands fisting in the fabric bundled on her lap to conceal their trembling. A lie instinctively rose to her lips but seeing Sheil's narrowed eyes, she knew it was no use. Sighing, Isabella returned her gaze to her sewing though her needle was now forgotten. "I believe I met him a few days ago when I walked in to Mousehole."

Sheil nodded knowingly, lips pursing. "So is that's what's behind all your dreamy stares, mislaying your thimble and failing to hear me calling your name?"

Isabella straightened in her chair, prickly with defensiveness. "You heard Mr. Eldritch. 'He turns a fine heel.' Why would a gentleman, possibly a nobleman, have any interest in a country girl?"

But Sheil would hear none of it, her own spine straightening as she leaned forward on the seat cushion. "You are the daughter of a gentlewoman and a fine lieutenant of the British army. You have no reason to hang your head!"

Isabella sighed, inwardly chastising herself for forgetting Sheil's deep fondness for Charles, even all these years after his death. Sheil took pride in her service to the Swan family, having been Charles' nursemaid when he was first born, then housekeeper and companion to his mother after Charles had joined the army—and finally Isabella's nursemaid after he returned to Mousehole with a charming French bride. Isabella's lips parted, her response soft, "That may be the case," her shoulders lifted and fell. "Nonetheless, my circumstances are much reduced. There can be no interest there."

But her deferential tone did nothing to allay Sheil's ire, the servant's gnarled finger rising to point at the ceiling with increasing passion. "I'll not have you hang your head—nay, child, I won't!" She shook her head vigorously. "A gentleman without scruples—he might take advantage of a girl with no pride, a girl ashamed of her circumstances—"

"Sheil," Isabella interrupted as her own anger flared to life, brows lowering over brown eyes. "I am not ashamed."

"Aye, and for what reason could ye be?" Sheil asked, hands lowering to her hips. "Get mad, child, get spitting mad—for I'd rather see ye mad and filled with pride than ashamed and bowing your head!" Isabella sighed as she realized Sheil was simply goading her, the anger passing as suddenly as it had come. Her shoulders sank back into the cushions, wearily watching as the older woman worked herself into a lather. "A girl with pride has naught to fear," Sheil went on, adamantly shaking her head. "A girl with pride—no gentleman can take advantage of her for she knows her worth!"

Isabella knew the tirade had reached the point where no response would ease Sheil's mind; the former nursemaid was intent in trying to protect her charge and would have her say. What's more, Isabella wasn't certain her thoughts would have comforted the aged companion. She suspected Sheil imagined a gentleman something like Mr. Eldritch or his ungenerous son, a simple councilman, as of the country as she or Sheil. But the Frenchman had been nothing like Mr. Eldritch or Mr. James; he was foreign, sophisticated, his garb finer than any she'd yet seen, his very gait filled with elegance and lightness.

"Yes, Sheil," Isabella responded, all docility as she picked up her mending again.

"Ye are worthy child, if only ye knew!" Sheil exclaimed before her features softened, her ire subsiding. "Ye are worthy." She shook her head. "That Mr. James can barely keep his eyes in his head—and likely cares naught for his brother one whit but for these visits on the way."

Isabella's gaze shot from her mending to that of her nurse, surprised and disbelieving. "Sheil, don't be ridiculous."

But the nursemaid simply nodded her head, her expression knowing. "He might pursue ye were he not so ambitious."

Isabella couldn't help a laugh, flinging her sewing to her lap. "So you admit I'm not his match!"

But Sheil would not relent, her voice growing irate again as she spoke, "Ye are worth ten of him, Isabella Swan! Ambition don't make none a gentleman, and certainly not Mr. James Eldritch Junior!"


	5. Terrible Infatuation

Thank you so much for reading and reviewing.

* * *

…_conquer this terrible infatuation, which obscures danger from your sight, and right from your discernment!_

_Camilla, A Picture of Youth  
__Fanny Burney_

**five**

Isabella had tried to attend to her mending upon rising, but her mind could not focus on the task before her. Though she had brought her work basket with her to the dining room to allow Mrs. Hammet to clean the front sitting room, she had repeatedly found herself staring in confusion at the sewing in her hands, having again lost count of her stitches. Unbidden, her mind repeatedly returned to Mr. Eldritch's words, inwardly marveling at the fact that the Frenchman had not simply been passing through on his way to a much more interesting destination. Restlessness filled her limbs and she found herself flinging her mending aside, catching up her bonnet in nervous hands as she stood before the dining room windows. The sensation was strong, matched only by the instance in which she had been compelled out of bed in the middle of the night—the night before she'd met Mr. Maçon.

Isabella turned from the dining room windows, regarding the work basket on the center of the table with narrowed eyes. It overflowed with thread, notions, and the petticoat and stockings she knew she needed to mend. But it was no use.

Quickly, before she could allow doubt to cause her to hesitate, she turned from the window and crossed to the door. She ducked her head into the front sitting room but Mrs. Hammet was alone, wiping down the mantel with a rag. "Is Sheil in the kitchen?"

The woman nodded, her face flushed and distracted. Isabella murmured a word of thanks before trotting down the corridor, seeking her former nursemaid. "Sheil?" she called before she'd passed through the heavy door. "Sheil?"

"Yes, child?" The elder woman sat by the hearth, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea. She lifted her head, covered with its customary mob cap, as Isabella stepped through the door.

Isabella paused just within the threshold, unaware of how the restlessness she felt was evident in her stance. One hand extended back to the latch of the door, giving her the look of ready flight, while the other fidgeted at her side, the bonnet dancing from her fingertips. "I believe I'll go to Mousehole," she announced. Her gaze abruptly grew distant, eyes fixed on the rear door that exited to the garden behind the cottage. It was for this reason that she did not note Sheil's darkening expression, which was rapidly curling into a frown.

"Isabella—" Sheil began.

But her charge was speaking, her voice faint, as though she hadn't heard the older woman say her name. "I must go." Sheil's eyes narrowed, a mixture of concern and curiosity crossing her gaze, her lips pressing together as she thought better of the tirade she had been preparing to deliver.

When Sheil finally managed a response, her voice was soft though the concern had not faded from her countenance. "What for, child?"

It was as if the words broke the spell. Isabella shook her head, her eyes clearing as her gaze fell to the bonnet still hanging from her hand. "To the mantua maker. I would like some riband—something to adorn this dull hat."

"I see," Sheil answered slowly, her chin lifting as though to nod—though her head simply inclined at a dubious angle, her brows low over her eyes. Isabella glanced in the older woman's direction, suspicious that the former nursemaid had not spoken to protest.

But when she saw her companion remain silent, Isabella briefly smiled, the quickest motion of her lips. "Shall I fetch you anything from the shops there?"

Sheil shook her head, her brow easing into the benign expression that had graced her features when Isabella first interrupted her tea. "We needn't anything here, child." The words were mild. "Enjoy the fresh air."

Isabella nodded but hesitated, as if uncertain Sheil was truly going to let her go without any further remonstrance. Then, as if thinking better of this uncertainty, she jammed the bonnet onto her head and turned on a swift heel. "I won't be long!"

Sheil listened to the tap of Isabella's boots against the corridor floor, soon followed by the slam of the front door, but the frown did not fade from her brow for several minutes more.

The sky was white, a pall of high clouds concealing any hint of blue from view. Somehow, though, Isabella felt no concern at the lack of sun, a smile fighting to tilt her lips as she turned down the lane that would take her along the jagged coast to town. She could not ascertain what had lightened her spirits so, only that the restlessness that had been coursing through her limbs suddenly felt much lessened. It took all of her effort not to skip down the path like a giddy child, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

Given the high path's exposure to the open sea, Isabella was pleasantly surprised to find the wind was infrequent and weak, her skirts genty stirring about her legs, her bonnet secure on her head with no need of a strong hand to keep it in place. Her gaze turned to the sea, her breath growing even in time with the steady pulse of the waves, her nose filled with the scent of ocean salt and the green richness of blooming things.

She was distracted from this reverie by the vibration of approaching horse hooves, the sensation subtle but unmistakeable. It took all of her will not to turn and determine if it was him, forcing her gaze to remain focused on the horizen, her breath steady though she could feel the beat of her heart in her chest. Later, she would wonder that she didn't grow tense and nervous, her heart racing, her breathing labored. Instead, contrarily, she grew relaxed, her shoulders easing away from her ears, her gloved hands unfurling at her sides.

Only when she knew the rider was nearly upon her did she step from the path; the ground swelled slightly on either side of the well-trod lane, the grass still damp with dew, young crocuses spearing up from the earth. She heard the rider slow and turned her head, looking over her shoulder with an unsurprised gaze. This calm flickered for only a moment at seeing the same expectation in his countenance, as if he had known he would encounter her on this path, on this day.

"To the market again?" He called, his voice almost playful as he tugged at the reins, drawing his horse to a halt. An involuntary shiver traced a path down her spine though she had expected the lilt and tenor of his voice. Had she not replayed their conversation in her mind many times since their first encounter, his cultured accent echoing in her head as she drifted into fitful sleep?

What she did not expect was the charming smile which curved over his lips, his pale features transformed from merely handsome into dangerously enchanting. Isabella forced her gaze from his face, glancing over the fine cut of his navy coat and buff-colored riding trousers, his black boots gleaming with polish, before her eyes dropped to the stooped horse beneath his frame. A frown crossed her brow, responding with the first question that entered her head. "Could you not find a better horse than Mr. Moorland's old mare?"

As the words left her lips, she realized the impudence of the query, heat flaming in her cheeks as her gaze abruptly dropped to the ground; she pretended intense fascination with the grass at her feet and the hem of her walking gown grown damp with dew. Despite this false focus, her frown remained, unable to forget her confusion in her embarrassment. If he was as wealthy as Mr. Eldritch suspected, could he not have hired the finest steed?

Fortunately, Mr. Maçon simply laughed, the sound ringing out as he swung down from the saddle. "She's all that could stand me." Isabella's gaze reluctantly lifted from the soft grass and violet crocuses, lips slightly parted with surprise that he was not affronted at her question. His black eyes sparkled as he glanced back to the horse, briefly lifting the reins with a helpless gesture. "I have not your talents for enchanting beasts of burden."

Her cheeks flamed only brighter at his reference to their prior encounter, her hands again curling into nervous, embarrassed fists. She knew not where to look, no ready response at her lips. Ultimately, it was of no import that she could not gain her wits for the mare had turned her head, almost as if aware they were speaking of her, and gently nosed at Isabella's closed hand.

Mr. Maçon's laugh was uproarious and Isabella's cheeks burned more hotly, her lips tightly pursing as annoyance joined her embarrassment. What could she have thought in journeying out on this day? What could she have sought in hoping to see him again?

Before she could find an excuse to be on her way, he was dipping into a deep bow, doffing his hat as he asked, "May I please introduce myself?" Isabella's lips parted, thinking to protest his assumptions regarding her talent with animals, a ready excuse on her tongue. Misunderstanding her intention, he quickly added, "I realize there is not the proper means of introduction—" A note of uncertainty had entered his voice and she could not help her eyes widening in surprise, her anger and embarrassment replaced entirely by wonder that he should assume she would forebear to deny him anything someone so mannered requested. He clasped his hat in hands that looked as if they longed to fidget, his gaze darting from her features, to his feet, to the reins he still negligiently held.

"If you wish," Isabella finally allowed with the slightest nod.

His smile of relief inspired one of her own and Isabella inwardly cursed to feel her cheeks warming again, wondering at his affect on her person. "I am Edward Maçon—from Châteauroux as you know."

"And I am Isabella Swan." She lifted her chin, recalling Sheil's admonitions of the day before. She was not ashamed.

Mr. Maçon swept into another bow. "It is a pleasure."

Isabella curtsied before nodding towards the road, indicating her destination. "I am not going to the market today but to the mantua maker."

He regarded her with a steady, thoughtful gaze before his lips barely parted to murmur, "Que vous alliez vêtue ainsi qu'une princesse…" Isabella's eyes flared wide; though she could speak only passable French, she understood it well. And though Renée had forbade her daughter from reading some of the books packed into Charles' study at the rear of the house, Isabella had often snuck into that dusty room during the many hours when Renée was preoccupied in the garden or the kitchen. She had never failed to be fascinated by that shadowed space; by the ancient leather chair with its high tufted back; by the massive walnut desk with its calfskin blotter, stained blue black in spots from spilled ink; by the colorful rug that covered the floorboards, worn and faded with time; and by the shelves of books purchased by the Swan family over the decades.

Moliére's _Tartuffe_ was wedged on the highest shelf along with several other books and leaflets in French, one of many items Renée had brought to Cornwall from France after marrying Charles. Despite her mother's attempts to prevent the curious eyes of an impressionable child from seeing that which she should not see, Isabella had first read it when her hair was still in plaits—and several more times since given she'd understood little of it as a child.

"You think me…extravagant?" she whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. She was suddenly hot with confusion, unable to understand how her simple walking gown, white muslin trimmed at the throat and sleeves with the narrowest strip of lace, could have called that play to mind.

But Mr. Maçon was shaking his head, a flash of regret crossing his features as he spoke, "You speak French."

"A little," Isabella's confusion shifted to dismay, wondering that he should be surprised by this truth. But then, as she inwardly acknowledged that only the gentry in the area could claim to know the tongue, her irritation subsided. "My mother was French," she finally allowed, raising her head to regard him with a wary stare.

Mr. Maçon nodded sharply, his dark head briefly bowing before he gestured to the path before them. Isabella examined his features, searching for the mockery or amusement she was certain must accompany his surprise at learning she understood a foreign language. But his countenance was clear, indicating nothing more than politeness.

He only spoke again when she had preceded him down the path, his voice sincere as he apologized, "I beg your pardon, Miss Swan. It is unforgiveable—a lapse of judgement on my part, perhaps…" The words trailed into silence and Isabella found herself examining his features, longing to understand what he'd meant in making the reference.

But no explanation was forthcoming, his expression inscrutable, gaze trained on the road as he accompanied her along the Coast Path, the old mare sedately following. When he finally spoke, it was not in reference to the banned play. "From where did your mother hail?"

"Near Paimpont, in Brittany," Isabella answered, then added with a slight frown, "It is likely miles from Châteauroux."

Mr. Maçon nodded. "This is true. I have only been as far west as Tours." He glanced in her direction. "There is a magnificent cathedral there." Before she could respond, he was speaking again, as if intent on changing the topic of discussion. "And you have family there?"

Isabella's gaze fell, her own curiosity easing at evidence of his. "I believe so. But after my mother and father passed, we were unable to get any letters through."

Mr. Maçon ducked his head, the grimace twisting his lips indicating his contrition—as well as annoyance with himself. "I do beg your pardon—again," he wryly added. Then, more soberly, "I am very sorry for your loss."

Isabella tilted her head, brown eyes steady and only slightly sad as she regarded him. "It was some time ago. It will have been nine years this coming summer." As her gaze returned to the road, she added, "You are kind but there is no need to be sorry."

His pale features furrowed with a frown. "I must, at the very least, be sorry their lives were not longer," he protested.

Isabella nodded, "Certainly." She was then silent, her gaze drifting to her feet, thoughtful. She realized they were walking quite slowly, the mare tugging at blades of grass behind them, but she could not bring herself to examine why. When she finally spoke, she strived to convey lightness in her tone, intent on belying any bitterness that might be thought to underlie her words. "But are our years not always limited?"

Mr. Maçon's expression abruptly shifted from contrition to unabashed surprise and curiosity, lips slightly parted as he stared at her with disbelief. Isabella's gaze fell at his reaction, uncertain whether she'd offended him with her philosophical acceptance of her parents' death. She added, the words determined, "I can also be gladdened they lived at all, and that they had one another while they were alive."

He remained silent and she went on, her mind suddenly filled with the memory of that summer day, of Sheil's reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks. "I told my nursemaid—many weeks later, of course," she paused. "They could not be happy apart. 'Tis much better they be together in death." She turned her gaze back to the road, her voice matter-of-fact. "Father was often gone on the Continent and Maman could not abide his long absences."

"He was in the military," Mr. Maçon presumed.

She nodded, "With the 32nd Regiment." She did not add that given all of the foreign conflicts, the spans of time in which he'd been home were rare; she suspected her father had loved the excitement and purpose of being commissioned in the army, however much it had taken him away from his wife and daughter.

"And his family?" Mr. Maçon enquired.

Isabella shook her head. "My grandfather died before I was born, and my grandmother passed while I was still an infant."

"And your father was the only child," he concluded.

"Yes. Mr. Eldritch—he's one of the village councilman in Mousehole—heard tell of a brother to my grandfather living in the north. But there were no responses to his letters." Sensing his next question, she added, "And with all of the upheaval on the Continent, it's unlikely any of his letters reached their destination in France. I've no notion of whether my mother's relations are still living, and they likely haven't the means of reaching me if they do."

"Very true," Mr. Maçon nodded, black eyes thoughtful. "You seem quite reconciled to your circumstances."

A frown darted across Isabella's brow, not quite certain as to his meaning—or how to respond. "I cannot imagine my life otherwise." His expression was musing, dark brows drawn slightly together beneath the brim of his hat, and she was not certain whether she detected dubiousness there. Thinking of Sheil's words again, she added, "I have all I need and want for nothing."

"Even frills from the mantua maker?" he teased, his sudden smile so bright that she couldn't think to be defensive or angry in response.

"Perhaps the occasional frill," she allowed, ducking her head to hide her smile, knowing the brim of her bonnet would conceal her features.

His laugh was soft in response and she felt her cheeks warm; but she sensed he was not laughing at her, the sound simply amused rather than cruel, his black eyes sparkling as her gaze darted up to meet his own. "It appears we are nearing our destination," he noted, bringing her attention to the fact that they were approaching the outskirts of the village. They had moved so slowly that she had not grown breathless while climbing the hill that rose before the town, distracted from noticing her surroundings by his presence yet again.

She hesitated as they reached the crest of the hill, hands nervously clasped before her as she faced him, words of farewell ready on her lips. But she found she couldn't speak, gaze darting away from his steady stare, lips parted but silent. Isabella didn't know whether to be pleased or displeased that he was not making his own excuses and continuing on his way; and of course the docile mare did not tug at the reins or stamp her hooves with impatience, simply lowering her head to a copse of grass and pulling a few blades free.

The village unfolded below in the cradle of the harbor, fishing boats bobbing in the distance, a breeze stirring loose tendrils of hair not caught beneath her bonnet.

Isabella knew she should behave as she had at their first encounter, but she could not bring herself to part from his company. "So it is." She forced her gaze back to his, tilting her head. "Where are you destined for today?"

He bowed his head, acknowledging her acceptance of his continued company. "Simply returning to the coaching inn," he answered as they resumed their slow stroll down the path towards the village below. "I've been abroad on my search and have tired Mr. Moorland's mare—though I suspect we've given her a bit of a rest this last mile."

"Ah, yes," Isabella nodded. Cottages sprang up on either side of the lane, soon blocking their view of the blue gray sea, while the ground beneath their feet transitioned from dirt and gravel to uneven cobblestones. "I'm sure he's grateful for the income—Mr. Moorland is ever sentimental about his horses." The road forked into two before them and Isabella bit her lip as she remembered darting down Talskiddy Lane rather than risk remaining in Mr. Maçon's company when they'd met before. Like that day, there were few people passing on the narrow streets, barely wide enough for a carriage. Most of the fishermen would be out on the bay, and the farmers would be in their fields. A few elderly men loitered before the door of the King and Hare, the local public house, their mouths pursed around pipes, their conversation falling silent as Isabella and Mr. Maçon passed. She ignored their stares.

"Which I'm sure you appreciate," Mr. Maçon's tone was teasing again, but she felt no embarrassment this time at his words. Her lips merely twisted into a wry smile, refusing to rise to his baiting. While she still wondered how he had witnessed her with Raginnis' bull when she had been so certain she was alone, at least he didn't appear to think less of her for the childish errand.

A pack of children raced by, laughing and breathless, their boots tapping against the cobblestones; it was difficult to tell who was being chased, all of their faces flushed and smiling.

"Here is the haberdasher, which means we are nearly to the mantua maker," Isabella noted, lifting her head to the signs swinging above, jutting at right angles from the shops marching along the lane. Though the haberdasher and mantua maker had separate exterior doors, they were joined inside given many of their supplies were the same, as were their patrons.

"Then I will continue on my way to the coaching inn." Mr. Maçon drew to a stop before the shop entrance, his gloved hand tightening around the reins of his hired horse. "Miss Swan, it was a pleasure to meet you," he bowed, doffing his hat with his free hand.

She curtsied as he rose to his full height, unable to bite back the smile forming upon her lips. "Mr. Maçon," she acknowledged with a nod.

"Til we meet again," he smiled.

Though she had resisted blushing for the last few minutes of their journey, she could not help the warmth that flooded her cheeks at these words.


	6. Forsee Storms

_Thank you so much for reading and reviewing._

* * *

_As Birds and Beasts, whose Bodies are much used to the Change of the frie and open Air forsee Storms; so those invisible People are more sagacious to understand by the Books of Nature things to come, than we, who are pestered with the grosser Dregs of all elementary Mixtures, and have our purer Spirits choaked by them._

_The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies  
__Robert Kirk_

**six**

The shop was small, but the gray light of day reached back to the farthest corners given the large glass windows that faced the narrow lane; candles were used sparingly given the bolts of fabric, lace, velvet and other finery carried within, the flames struck only when the day had grown dark—and then immediately covered by a glass shade. Nonetheless, Isabella hesitated upon the threshold, allowing her pupils to adjust to confines that were still shadowy compared to the brightness outside. This was likely why she was observed by Miss Rosalie Hale long before she'd distinguished any of the silhouetted figures in the shop interior.

"Come, Nan," the voice rang out, commanding and brusque. "I have suddenly lost my taste for shopping." It was only as the tall figure approached, blond hair peeking from beneath a bonnet bedecked with feathers, that Isabella realized who was speaking. She quickly stepped aside, the blood draining from her face, forcing her gaze from the scars pitting Miss Hale's cheeks and brow and throat, inadequately covered by powder. For a moment, Isabella knew not where to look, near breathless with panic, before her brown eyes cast to the ground.

There was a loud clang due to the force with which Miss Hale opened the door, the bell above it ringing out sharply, before it slammed shut behind the stately figure and her scurrying companion. Isabella's gaze remained on the floorboards of the shop, unable to lift her head, her pulse throbbing in her throat.

Her mind was far from the little shop filled with fabric and trimmings, her gaze fixed inward, on conversations and memories she'd done her best to forget, an unpleasant encounter that she still could not quite make sense of.

She had never been fond of dancing, unable to forget how graceful and light Renée had been when attempting to instruct her daughter in the basic steps. Her mother had made it seem so effortless, her skirts flowing about her legs, her head elegantly tilted, her pale arms gracefully extended. Isabella couldn't help feeling like a lumbering, awkward creature next to her.

But she could only resist Sheil's supplications, reasoning, and, finally, pointed, surly lectures for so long. Since she had come of age, Isabella had usually acquiesced once or twice a year to her former nursemaid's requests to attend one of the assembly balls in Penzance. Though she was certain that Sheil was right in her estimation that Isabella's dancing would only improve were she to attend more often, she simply couldn't subject herself to the awkward conversations, far more awkward minuets and reels, and inadequate suppers that encompassed being present at the assembly balls.

Isabella had managed to resist for much of the spring but by May knew she would have to succumb to Sheil's increasingly irate demands. Mrs. Berty, the wife of a solicitor in Heamoor who had known Sheil for many years, had secured tickets for them. They had hired a carriage and Isabella had donned the same dress and elbow-length gloves she'd worn the prior year. To her relief there were many new faces, young girls who had only recently put up their hair and a few gentlemen newly arrived to the area, allaying her concern about wearing an ensemble people might recognize.

Of course, given she spent the majority of her time standing near a far wall listening to Sheil and Mrs. Berty gossip, it wasn't as if she would have attracted much notice in the first instance. Her gaze had drifted around the room, looking over the shoulders of other observers, everyone intent in watching the dancers at the center of the hall. She glimpsed the flash of embroidered skirts, arms graced by long, drooping gloves, and the occasional bobbing feather or sparkling diadem threaded through upswept tresses. Gentlemen bowed and hopped in and out of view, smiling down at their partners, while the distant sound of violins and a French horn made its way to her ears.

"Let's get near the fire, child," Sheil's voice had broken into her passive observance of her surroundings; Isabella had started, turning her head to see that Sheil was indeed holding her wool shawl close, visibly chilled in the lofty hall. Her gray hair was covered by her most elaborate cap, two rows of ruffles framing her plump features, her blue eyes alight with the excitement of attending a Penzance assembly ball.

"Of course, Sheil," Isabella had smiled down at her companion and threaded her gloved arm through Sheil's. They wove through the crowd, keeping close to the wall until a cluster of gentlemen sampling a new mixture of snuff had forced them to veer more closely to the dancers. The reel broke apart just as they did so, the ladies and gentlemen bowing and curtsying breathlessly as they took leave of one another; a tall young lady, wheat blond hair piled atop her head, turned directly out of her curtsy and nearly collided with Isabella and Sheil.

"I beg your pardon!" Isabella gasped as she leapt back, unwittingly yanking at Sheil's arm as the older woman could not react nearly as quickly.

The young lady started and straightened, her hands instinctively grasping at her skirts, as if ensuring they didn't get stepped on and torn in the near-collision. Isabella was momentarily distracted by the richness of the fabric, a gossamer muslin shot through with gold embroidery; a sash in the same gold neatly circled the high waist of the gown, the gathered sleeves edged in gold lace. Further, a gold necklace adorned her neck, matching bobs dancing from her ears. Perhaps it was this richness that led Isabella to notice the scars that marred her oval face only as the lady's features were curling into a sneer, her blue eyes cold as she took a deliberate step back.

Without speaking, the tall blonde then swept past, her shoulder roughly brushing Isabella's own; had Isabella not jerked to the left, nearly treading on the hem of Sheil's gown, she would have been knocked over. Instinctively, Isabella turned to watch the young lady stalk through the crowd, eyes wide with confusion, lips parted with disbelief. It was only as she felt Sheil's hand tugging on her arm that the whispers of the people crowding the hall reached her ears, her cheeks abruptly flaming as she realized she had been the unwitting recipient of a cut direct.

Isabella had numbly followed as Sheil gently tugged her through the hall to the smaller card room, intent in reaching the fire that had been their object in the first place. Only when the older woman had pushed a glass of ratafia into her hands did Isabella see that her former nursemaid was livid with outrage, blue eyes blazing, lips trembling with anger. Isabella did not realize her own hands were shaking until she lifted the sweet ratafia to her lips.

"The audacity—!" The words were enraged but spoken in a whisper, Sheil's gloved hands clenched into fists at her sides, her gaze protectively fixed on Isabella's pale countenance.

"Sheil?" Mrs. Berty was behind them, her expression a mask of confusion and shock. "What has happened? Did I just hear that—"

"Yes, ye did," Sheil responded. "But I don't aim to be the subject of any further gossip," her gaze was pointed as she glanced around the card room. Though the musicians had struck up a minuet, the pleasant notes drifting through the open doors, Isabella could see many of the card players were covertly watching them, their attention only superficially on their games of whist or piquet.

Mrs. Berty's voice had fallen to an urgent whisper, "That girl should be glad she's alive!"

"Don't I know it!" Sheil had whispered back. "If it weren't for Mrs. Renée, Rosalie Hale wouldn't be breathing air as we speak!" Turning to Isabella, she continued, "Pay no mind to misses that don't have manners to speak of."

But Isabella could not forget the open snub she had so unexpectedly received, nor the look of unabashed anger in the eyes of the scarred lady. Sheil, however, would speak no more of the matter, refusing to allow their whispers to draw any further attention to the affair. Both she and Mrs. Berty were able to keep up a façade of light conversation through the conclusion of the ball; Sheil refused to depart any earlier, stubbornly stating, "I won't support the notion that I'm running away with my tail betwixt my legs."

Only in the hired carriage on their return journey home had she divulged the only possible reason Rosalie Hale could have behaved in so rude a manner. The door had clipped shut behind them, the carriage silent but for the sound of the coachman clambering into his seat. This was soon followed by the click of his tongue against his teeth as he bid the horses to begin the long trot home. Isabella was set to pepper her former nursemaid with questions when Sheil spoke unprompted. "Ye were no more than eight or nine, still just a girl. I know ye were abed when Captain Hale knocked on the door, looking for your mother." Isabella discerned the sound of a deep breath, but she could not make out Sheil's expression in the dark shadows of the carriage. "He was new to the area then, had just purchased Alverton Manor from the Veale family—and he didn't trust the doctor with his little girl. 'A country sawbones,' as he called him." Her gloved hand reached through the shadows, covering Isabella's own where it rested on her knee. "Your mother, however, was highly recommended for her nursing."

Isabella's heart clenched in her chest, finally coming to understand Sheil's meaning. As if sensing this realization, Sheil leaned forward, her features thrown into relief by the moon glowing through the carriage windows. Her gaze was steady, her voice insistent, "'Twas not your mother that scarred that poor girl, Isabella. 'Twas the smallpox. Make no mistake of that."

Isabella forced her gaze to focus on the dusty floorboards of the mantua makers, blindly picking out strands of thread that had yet to be swept up. Though she knew she shouldn't look, she couldn't resist glancing over her shoulder. She was somehow unsurprised to find Edward Maçon had not yet departed—and given Rosalie Hale's swift exit, he was now bowing low in greeting, his gaze unflinching as it rested on her powdered features.

Isabella swiftly turned away from this tableau, her chin low, hoping her bonnet would conceal the dart of pain contorting her features. For she felt it almost physically, the blow of realizing that Miss Hale was one of the few who could claim to be his social equal.

"Miss?" Mr. Snow, the shopkeeper, was clearly confused as to why she hadn't yet stepped far beyond the threshold.

"Oh, yes!" Isabella nearly shouted, her head jerking up as she realized she must at least pretend an interest in her surroundings. She moved forward towards the wide counter behind which the shopkeeper stood, forcing a note of pleasantry into her voice as she asked to see any striped riband he might have. She managed to feign fascination with the wares he took down from the shelves, but finally begged his pardon as none of it was quite what she had in mind.

When she departed the shop, she was certain enough time had lapsed that Rosalie Hale must be long gone. As the daughter of Captain Hale, Justice of the Peace and owner of Alverton Manor, she had likely traveled by barouche or gig, her slippers unmarred by the mud and dust of the country roads. Nonetheless, Isabella glanced in both directions as she stepped from the shop before quickly hurrying in the direction of home.

She felt a strange, hot emotion, her fists curled so tightly at her sides that were she not wearing gloves, she was certain her nails would have left marks upon her palms. Her teeth were clenched behind tight lips, her face warm with something greater than frustration, greater than anger or embarrassment—a wildness that was utterly abnormal to her typically easy, contented nature.

Her pace was furious, her chest heaving with the force of her breath as she swiftly climbed the hill that led from the village of Mousehole. But why should she be so angry? It was through no fault of her own that Rosalie Hale chose to hold some sort of grudge for her disfigurement against the Swan family. Isabella knew Sheil and Mrs. Berty were right—that given Rosalie's scarring, her smallpox must have been inordinately severe. Isabella had no doubt it was through the ministrations of her mother that Rosalie Hale was alive at all.

And yet she still felt hot and agitated, her gaze fixed on her feet for fear that should anyone see her expression, she would be stopped and forced to fabricate some lie to explain the passion she knew to be written in her features. It was only the piercing screech of some animal that drew her gaze and attention, her head jerking up at the sound.

Isabella sucked in a breath to see the pack of children that had raced by her and Mr. Maçon earlier, now crowded around a boney cat; a few of the older boys held sticks, jeering and laughing as they poked at the cornered animal. Its arched back was nearly flush with the stone wall of the building behind it, yellow eyes narrowed yet full of fear.

"Go on!" Isabella cried, instinctively crossing the road to the circle of crouching, laughing children. A few turned their heads, startled. "Go on!" she cried, her fury only compounded by their casual violence against a helpless animal.

Seeing her wrathful mood, the children quickly scattered, the older boys dropping their sticks as they darted down the narrow street, disappearing around the nearest corner. The cat was equally swift as it raced in the opposite direction, its tail like a lightning bolt.

Isabella exhaled, shoulders sagging, a modicum of her anger dissipating. Quickly, she glanced around before continuing on her way, grateful Mr. Maçon had not come upon her once again, likely ready with a pithy observation regarding her affinity for animals. Isabella shook her head at the thought and then glanced to the sky as she reached the edge of town; for while she knew she still had some distance to go, she was suddenly certain a storm was coming. Her eyes narrowed dubiously to see the sky had cleared, the clouds wisping apart to reveal glimpses of blue. She shook her head again and quickened her pace, knowing without a doubt she would be caught in the rain otherwise.

She faltered as the recollection of her mother doing the exact same thing suddenly rose to the surface of her churning thoughts. She had never thought anything amiss in Renée's habit of telling her when she should not go far when venturing beyond the limits of the Swan property, or bidding Sheil to hold off on journeying into town, or advising Mr. and Mrs. Hammet to wait another week to plant their crops as the coming storms would likely wash the seeds away.

Isabella squeezed her eyes shut, her heart thumping against her ribs—due to the pace of her swiftly moving legs, or due to her unsettling thoughts…she wasn't certain. But the galloping hooves of an approaching rider startled her eyes wide, breath caught in her throat, fearing another chance encounter with Mr. Maçon. For she knew she could not form even the semblance of a polite greeting, or maintain some normalcy in conversation—not now, not with these thoughts swirling within.

Fortunately, it was only Mr. Raginnis on his enormous bay, who barely slowed as Isabella stepped from the path, briefly raising his hat from his bald head as he galloped by. Isabella found herself exhaling with relief, thankful it had not been Mr. Maçon coming upon her in his accidental way—which she somehow knew in her heart could not entirely be an accident of fate…however wild and inexplicable such a certainty must be.

_Accident._

The word lodged in her mind as the image of Rosalie Hale filled her mind, the powder caking her skin like a mask that still failed to fully conceal the scars that marred her cheeks and brow and throat. The blonde would have been beautiful but for the deep pits in her skin, her eyes wide and brightly blue, her lips shapely and pink, her features even and symmetrical.

A drop of rain dampened Isabella's sleeve but she did not heed this precursor of the coming storm. Her gaze was distant, lost in the memory of the night when she had unwittingly reminded Rosalie of the disfigurement that had irrevocably destroyed her beauty. Isabella could nearly feel Sheil's hand on her own in the darkness of the carriage that had carried them home last spring, the older woman's voice insistent. _'Twas not your mother that scarred that poor girl, Isabella. 'Twas the smallpox. Make no mistake of that._

She had never thought anything amiss in her mother being so frequently fetched by neighboring farmers and gentry, had never questioned her mother's skill with poultices and herbs. She wasn't certain what she had thought—that all women were skilled in such things? That perhaps her mother's uncanny ability to nurse the sickest and weakest back to health could be attributed, like her graceful dancing and fey humor, to her French background?

_Fate._

But Isabella was now old enough to know better, especially given how much France and its people were in the leaflets and newspapers that made their way to Mousehole from Penzance and farther—Exeter, Plymouth, London. She now knew that the French were known for their food, their fashion, and now, the dangerous extravagance of their aristocracy and the wild violence of the common people. But the French were not known for predicting when the sky would darken and rain would begin to fall, or for bringing flowers to bloom overnight, or for knowing where lost items could be found.

_Accident of fate._

Isabella shook her head, pushing away these thoughts. Were the local fishermen not known for gazing to the sky and making pronouncements about the coming day's weather? Perhaps Renée had simply been more skilled than most…

The rain had begun to fall in earnest and Isabella surfaced from her thoughts to see that she would soon be striding through puddles if she did not hurry. Gathering up her skirts, she increased her pace, her breath coming in quick pants as she felt the damp seeping through the straw of her bonnet, her sleeves clinging to her arms, her skirts heavy about her legs.

As she turned from the Coast Path to the narrow lane that would take her to Swan Cottage, she gasped to see the surface of the puddles splashing and bursting with the impact of something much larger than rain drops. Her gaze darted over the muddy road, her eyes narrowing with disbelief as she saw the gray white pellets of hail rapidly gathering on the ground. She hurried through the gate of Swan Cottage and hesitated as she reached the front steps. Realizing it made little sense to go inside for a cloak when she was already soaked, she darted over to the shutters that were latched back from the windows on the lower floor.

But her fingers were cold and she fumbled at the latch, struggling to free the shutter. Her gaze darted between her clumsy hands and the window as hail tapped a staccato rhythm against the cottage walls, the dining room shadowed and empty before her frantic eyes. Exhaling loudly in frustration, she grasped the edge of the shutter with one hand and yanked on the latch with the other, blinking back the rain that wet her face and lashes. In her haste and distraction, she didn't realize the latch had finally come loose, gasping as the shutter violently swung away from the cottage wall in her cold, numb hand. She jumped back but did not react quickly enough, a hiss of air escaping her lips as the shutter slammed against the sill—with her hand caught beneath the heavy planks.

Isabella swallowed her shriek, white spots suddenly clouding her vision as she jerked her hand free and instinctively swung it to her chest. She grasped it with her opposite hand, as if the pressure and will of her grip could alleviate the pain. _Sheil_. She thought her companion's name but couldn't bring herself to shout it aloud, certain she wouldn't be able to stop herself from childishly whimpering if she allowed her lips to part.

Before she could turn and rush inside, the very person of whom she had been thinking was on the front steps, her voice a worried call, "Isa! Isa, are ye alright? I had such a fright, thinking of ye out in this weather!" Isabella did not know how white her face appeared beneath the brim of her bonnet, brown eyes enormous and pained as she hurried to Sheil's side, still clutching her hand. The former's nursemaid's expression transformed from worry to shock. "Ack, what happened, child?!"

"The shutters—" Isabella managed to speak, the words a low moan.

"Come in, come in—get out of this rain!" Sheil bid, gently taking Isabella's wrist and pulling her into the house. "If only Mr. Connor were here to deal with the shutters—ye should have left them to him— always trying to help when I tell ye we can manage well enough without ye lifting a hand…" Sheil's litany of admonitions continued as they moved down the corridor to the kitchen, where the nursemaid pulled Isabella near the light of the fire and eased the wet glove from her hand.

"Oh, dear," Sheil whispered as Isabella sucked in a breath. Her hand throbbed all the worse for suddenly being able to see the injury. A shallow gash from the base of her thumb to her wrist marked where her hand had been pinched between the shutter and sill; the stark line was needled with red that grew brighter beneath her gaze, oozing from broken skin. Worse, her entire palm was swollen and rapidly turning purple. "Let me get a clean cloth and some water in the kettle." Sheil's voice was firm, brooking no objections. "Do not move."

Isabella sagged down onto the stool where Sheil usually spent her days, gaze blank as she stared down at her injured hand. Before the storm had turned so furious, before she had so clumsily injured herself, she had thought to ask Sheil about her mother, to question exactly what the former nursemaid knew of Renée's skills and knowledge. But those suspicions were long forgotten as she sat by the hearth, shivering in her wet gown, gently cradling her injured hand in her lap.


	7. Mystery

_Thank you so much for reading & reviewing. _

* * *

_You accuse me of mystery, and charge me with reserve: I cannot doubt but I must have merited the accusation; yet, to clear myself—you know not how painful will be the task._

_Evelina, or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World  
__Fanny Burney_

**seven**

As was her custom, Sheil had accompanied the Hammets to Paul Church for the Sunday morning service. Garbed in her best morning gown, a purple shawl neatly folded over her shoulders, she perched next to Mrs. Hammet on the high wagon seat, her posture erect, the white edge of her mobcap peeking from beneath the brim of her simple bonnet. Behind her, Mr. Connor and the younger Hammet children all sat with slick hair and fidgeting hands, their solemnity a thin veneer over their normal energy and exuberance.

From the upper window, Isabella peered between the curtains, careful to keep her figure fully concealed by the fall of damask fabric that covered the bedchamber panes. She smiled to see little Meg reach over to tweak her older brother's ear, restraining her laughter as Mr. Connor jumped, then glared down at his sister and whispering a reprimand Isabella could not hear. They both rocked back as the wagon lurched forward, neither having noticed their father clicking to the large draft horses that would carry them through Mousehole to the parish church.

Isabella saw Sheil's gloved hands tighten over her reticule and her lips curved into a wry grimace. She knew the former nursemaid was nervous of large horses…and mayhap she was more anxious than usual as she likely knew Isabella would no longer acquiesce to remaining abed.

Isabella had first been too stunned by the events of the day to protest Sheil's insistence that she remain in her bedchamber while she healed. "I don't trust ye not to use that hand should ye be up and about. And there ain't no guarantee ye won't get a fever yet." Isabella had nodded meekly from amongst the plumped pillows of her bed, unable to find the words to argue. But as the days passed and the swelling lessened, indicating she hadn't broken a bone—and no fevered blush stained her cheeks—it became impossible to be content with the same four walls. However many books Sheil fetched from the study below stairs, Isabella felt no satisfaction in idleness and was soon insisting on at least taking her meals in the dining room rather than in her bed.

She had induced Sheil to promise that if she was still without fever and swelling by Sunday, a full four days following the mishap, she could return to her usual activities. As Isabella watched her former nursemaid accompany the Hammets to church, she could not entirely doubt that some of Sheil's anxiety was to do with her charge and not simply her fear of horses.

But guilt could not keep Isabella to her room. She rose soon after the clop of horse hooves faded from her ears, turning from the bedchamber windows with an eager expression. Despite the bandage that still swaddled her hand, she quickly spilled water from the white enamel pitcher Sheil had filled the prior evening into the porcelain basin on the washstand. She splashed her face with her uninjured hand while carefully unthreading her plait with fingers still slightly swollen and hampered by the wrap of bandage. Loosening the ties at the neck of her nightdress, she quickly washed before moving to the clothes-press; one of the doors was ajar, revealing the gowns hanging within, a mix of pale colors and simple embellishment.

She quickly donned a shift and stockings, stays that were only loosely unlaced from the prior evening, a petticoat in fine lawn, a walking gown of white cambric with a faint stripe in darker white, and a gauzy fichu which she tucked into the square neckline of the gown. Turning to the vanity, she sighed to see the wild tangle of her hair. Without Sheil's help, she was going to have to make do with a much less neat style than the tight knot she typically wore pinned at her nape. As she found her wry gaze reflected in the glass, she finally lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug; for she was unlikely to encounter anyone on this solemn day.

Being Catholic, Renée had never approved of her daughter attending Anglican services. Charles, who did not feel strongly about the matter, had allowed his wife her preference, especially as it gave him cause to avoid the railing sermons Mr. Jenks delivered. After they had died, Isabella had assumed she would begin attending the local parish church with Sheil and the Hammets, but Sheil would not hear of it—however much she might have disapproved of Renée's papist beliefs. "Your mother would roll in her grave, child," Sheil's voice had been adamant. "I'll not have that on my head."

Isabella's gaze was thoughtful as she gathered her hair in one hand and looped it into a loose knot; holding the bun in place, she gathered the pins she'd discarded the night before from the vanity, carefully thrusting them into the chestnut tresses. Gingerly, she released the bun, and smiled to see it remain in place. Then, without a second glance to the looking glass, she hurried from the room.

Though she spent every Sunday alone in the cottage, she could not help the feeling of strangeness that the quiet, shadowed rooms engendered. The front sitting room was much too quiet, no fire crackling in the hearth, no faint noise of cooking or cleaning sounding down the corridor from the kitchen. The trop of horse hooves, protesting herds of sheep, or the creak of carriage wheels could not be heard through the windows for nearly everyone would be at services at this hour. The wind did not even stir against the rooftop, sending the leafy boughs of the surrounding trees into a whispering dance.

She was almost tempted to play the pianoforte she had neglected for years, but, glancing down at her injured hand, she knew the inclination had come at exactly the wrong time. Ducking down the corridor, she darted into the kitchen, retrieving a flaky bun from the basket on the high table at the center of the room. She then hurried to the garden, anxious to leave the too-quiet confines of the house.

Here, she lingered among the flowers that were now beginning to open more fully with the advent of the season, the soft inner petals of roses and daffodils unfurling to the sky, the sweet scent of honeysuckle evident on the warm spring air. Isabella's chin tilted with a thought, and she promptly disappeared into the house. Just as quickly, she returned to the garden with a wool throw in faded plaid and a book in her arms, the bun now lodged between her teeth. Soon, she was sitting among the blooms, nibbling at her pastry, lost in the finger worn pages.

Isabella only lifted her head when she heard the slam of a door, startled from Defoe's words regarding a tour of the isle of Britain. The cry of bright voices wishing Sheil farewell drifted from the front of the cottage, followed by the rumble of wheels and the lower tones of burbling conversation. Isabella straightened from her slouched posture, tucking her finger in the slim volume as she raised her head in expectation of Sheil's appearance.

The former nursemaid soon came into view in the darkened doorway of the kitchen, her expression bright, her shawl and reticule already discarded somewhere within the cottage. "Ah, dear girl, here ye are!"

Isabella smiled. "Was the service to your liking?"

Sheil's bright eyes briefly faded, her lips twisting in a grimace. "Nay, ye know Mr. Jenks nearly froths at the mouth with his sermons—I always did prefer Mr. Cameron. His sermons were nothing but kindness."

Isabella nodded, having heard much of this before. During one of his calls, Mr. Eldritch had shared that he'd once tried to convince Mr. Jenks to lighten the tone of his sermons, but, as Isabella learned each Sunday after Sheil returned from Paul Church, his arguments had not had their intended effect.

"'Tis unfair you are not allowed to select the curate," Isabella teased.

"Aye," Sheil nodded her head as she turned back to the kitchen. "For I certainly wouldn't pick none such as Mr. Jenks. I've always thought," she called from the darkness of the room, the sound of flint striking tinder clicking just beneath her words, "those that preach so mightily against every temptation and sin is thems that are sorely tempted themselves."

Isabella shook her head but remained silent; while she was certain that if Mr. Jenks had committed any transgression in such a small community, it would have immediately come to light, she saw no use in arguing the point with Sheil. "I'm to heat yesterday's stew," Sheil called from the depths of the kitchen. "Do ye be ravenous?" She re-appeared in the doorway, squinting in the bright light of day, a wooden ladle in her hand.

Isabella shook her head again, a faint smile on her lips. "I had a bun shortly after I dressed."

"Aye, but that was hours ago," Sheil grumbled as she turned back to the kitchen.

Isabella sighed, seeing that Sheil was likely to compensate for her inability to keep her charge in bed by fussing over Isabella for the remainder of the day. She tugged the throw from the ground as she rose to her feet, reluctantly trailing toward the kitchen—then hesitating. She glanced over her shoulder to the sky above, contemplating the sun steadily breaking through the clouds. "Sheil," she called, peering through the door into the darkness of the kitchen, "there are likely flowers in the Hammet's fallow field."

"Aye, child," Sheil called back. "Take a basket if ye aim to gather some."

Isabella smiled. "That is precisely what I had in mind." She stepped into the room, the peppery smell of stew evident in the air.

"But do take your bonnet, Isabella," Sheil called over her shoulder as she gently stirred the ladle. Though the words were chiding, her tone was full of affection.

"Yes, Sheil," Isabella replied with smiling obedience. Catching up the throw close to her chest, she quickly hurried above stairs, fetched her bonnet, and returned to the kitchen for one of the baskets hanging near the rear door. "I'll be back before long," she called as she sailed through the door.

"And supper will be waiting for ye," Sheil called back.

Isabella couldn't help her sigh at Sheil's insistence, but was soon smiling as she swung through the garden gate, unable to resist the allure of the fine day. While the sun didn't shine brightly, there was a warm glow to the sky, the air noticeably cooler beneath the boughs of the trees that dotted the open land beyond Swan Cottage. Though a narrow track carved through the high grass, she did not follow its path, preferring to trod the clover and wildflowers that carpeted the ground rather than rucking up dust on the road.

The trees soon thinned to nothing as she reached the fields the Hammets kept plowed with vegetables and hay for their livestock. While recent wisdom dictated plowing every field and rotating crops to prevent exhausting the soil, the Hammets were too wed to tradition to risk diverging from hundreds of years of practice. What was more, given Mr. Hammet and Mr. Connor were the only hands available to plough, harrow, and harvest, crop rotation was simply beyond their resources. As such, one field was still left fallow every spring, the livestock given free reign each evening to graze over the grass and clover there.

The field was empty now, the cows and pigs likely in their pens while the Hammets prepared their Sunday supper. Isabella clambered over the low stone wall that marked the perimeter of the property, cautious as she shifted the basket and throw to her bandaged hand. She lifted her head as she gained the ground on the opposite side, a deep breath of contentment filling her lungs before pushing past her lips.

Violet, pale yellow, and indigo blue blossomed against a backdrop of rich green. Though spring had only begun to warm the ground a few weeks prior, the wildflowers, clover, and tall grass rioted forth, nearly as high as Isabella's knees in places where the cows had failed to nibble it back. The air was scented with the faint richness of things green and growing, the call of birdsong filling her ears. She drifted through the tall grass, caught up in the beauty of this place, her home. Her fingers rose almost without conscious thought, untangling the ties of her bonnet and pulling the hat from her hair. Her lips curved into a smile as the sun kissed her cheeks, closing her eyes as she tilted her face to the light.

She soon found a patch of ground on which to spread her throw, certain Sheil's good mood would allow for lingering in the fallow field; after all, she was not far from home, the sky showed no sign of turning stormy, and the day was still young. Secure in the knowledge that she would get no chastisement upon returning to the cottage, Isabella soon lost herself in her book.

So absorbed was she by Defoe's words, imagining herself far from this place, exploring the lawns of the castle of Ludlow in north Wales, that she was genuinely startled when someone called her name. "Miss Swan?"

Isabella gasped, the voice all too familiar, eyes wide as they flew from the pages of her book to find Mr. Maçon leading his docile mare across the Hammet's fallow field. "Mr. Maçon," she cried, shock evident in her voice; the book slipped from her hands as she fumbled for her bonnet, and then, discarding the pretense of giving the false impression she cared at all about shading her complexion, clumsily clambered to her feet. She could see he was gesturing for her to remain where she was but she was too flustered to obey, cheeks pink with embarrassment and confusion. Though she was certain her skirts had fully covered her legs as she sat on the throw, she couldn't recall if she'd straightened her hem after scratching her ankle earlier. And she knew her hair to be in utter disarray, tendrils curling at her temples and cheeks, only loosely pinned into place that morning. She had thought to encounter no one on this day but for Sheil, and couldn't begin to think how or why he should have come upon this place.

"Please, you need not rise," he begged, the words low and smooth and impossibly cultured.

"Oh, no," Isabella protested in return—then struggled to think of a reason she should not have remained on the rumpled throw. Her gaze darted across the verdant field, her thoughts in complete chaos, before she turned her gaze to Mr. Maçon's dark eyes, a response on her lips. "I was to gather flowers," she struggled to laugh but the sound was strangled, her agitation still evident. "You have reminded me of my task."

"You were reading," he said, his tone only slightly indicating the statement was a question.

"I was," she answered, glancing down to the book splayed upon the plaid throw. "And was far too lost in the crags of Wales to discern your approach." She glanced past his shoulder, noting the bowed mare behind him—before her eyes narrowed, realizing there was only one direction from which he must have come. She did not realize she shook her head ever so slightly, so adamant was her silent denial, telling herself her assumption was not at all possible.

"But to where…" The words formed before she could restrain her curiosity, but she could not bring herself to finish the question, to voice such presumption. Her gaze abruptly fell to her feet, chastising herself for even considering the idea.

"Your companion directed me here," Mr. Maçon explained easily, sensing the intent behind her words, his nonchalance in stark contrast to her increased agitation. For Isabella suddenly found she could not breathe, could not lift her eyes, could not stop the shaking of her hands. "I called at Swan Cottage but," she could hear the smile in his voice. "You were not there."

He had paid her a call. This was no accidental meeting on public roads, the briefest of encounters whilst traveling in the same direction. No, this was a deliberate gesture, seeking out her company. She could not begin to contemplate the meaning of it, could not allow herself to speculate as to his intentions. For how crushing a blow would it be if she was mistaken?

"No," she finally answered, her voice small, the single word a near whisper. "The day—" She paused, forcing herself to breathe, to lift her head and cease being filled with such nerves. "The day is too fine to remain indoors," she finished, the words strong and clear.

It took all of her willpower not to falter beneath Mr. Maçon's frank, admiring gaze, his lips curving with the slightest half-smile as he regarded her steadily. She thought again how black were his eyes. In that moment, had she wanted to look away, it would not have been possible.

"Your companion said as much," he replied. His gaze fell first, glancing towards the reins in his hands before rising to the field around them. When he spoke again, his tone was more somber, his hands briefly tightening into fists, the leather of his gloves straining at the knuckles. "You are so frequently alone."

Isabella's lips parted with surprise, wondering that he should care to chide her. "Cornwall is no land of vice and ignominy," she protested, her soft laugh one of surprise rather than amusement. "I am perfectly safe."

Mr. Maçon simply shook his head, the dark locks of his hair shining in the sun light. Isabella found herself wondering that he should be without a hat again but given how bold her questions had been in the past, did not think to risk such impudence once more. His next words utterly distracted her from these thoughts.

"There are dangers," he replied, the softness of his words at odds with the meaning implied by them. "Often where we least expect."

Isabella did not realize her brown eyes had grown wide, her cheeks pale despite the warmth of the day. She could not understand his meaning and finally shook her head, taking refuge in raillery, "Come, Mr. Maçon," she replied. "I would not have taken you for my former nursemaid—"

"Though I certainly sound like her," he smiled at her in response, all of his sobriety dissipated. He nodded to the book. "Miss Cadwallader suspected you had become distracted by your reading."

Isabella could only smile, easily able to imagine Sheil's grumbling. "She knows me all too well." Taking a quick breath, she stooped to retrieve her empty basket. "And your presence has reminded me I am sorely neglectful of my task." Now that she'd had time to absorb his appearance, she realized how idiotic her initial assumptions were. She refused to believe his presence indicated anything meaningful. Perhaps he was interested in forming an acquaintance with one of the few people who held the slightest of ties to his homeland. Perhaps someone had glimpsed his horse in the area and he wanted to ensure she and Sheil were aware of this development. But it could not be that he wished to pay her a call due to his interest in her, as such an interest simply could not be possible.

"There is a particularly advantageous spot just beyond the rise," he nodded in the direction from which he'd come. Isabella smiled and nodded in turn, catching up her skirts in one hand as she pushed through the high grass. Mr. Macon turned to accompany her, his docile mare trailing behind. As they reached the center of the field, Isabella's toe caught in the soft earth—for she did not expect the ground to rise as suddenly as it did, the height of the grass concealing the swell. In her peripheral vision, she thought she saw Mr. Maçon abruptly reach out a gloved hand as if to catch her—but as she quickly regained her balance and glanced in his direction, she saw his hands were at his sides, the knuckles again straining against the leather of his gloves.

Before she could form some light comment regarding her lack of grace, her eye was caught by the rich blanket of colors just beyond the rise.

"Oh," she quietly exclaimed. "You were quite right."

Mr. Maçon simply smiled in return, whatever uneasiness that had been permeating his frame now completely absent. "I believe I spied a wild rose in the midst of this copse."

Isabella could not help stooping, nearly on her knees as she examined the bed of flowers that bloomed in the slight shade provided by the rise. There was an abundance of gorse, which was the likely reason the flowers had been left unharmed by the cows and pigs let loose in this field each evening; the thorns would prove a deterrent while there were other grasses more easily consumed.

Mixed among the yellow gorse was the pale purple, lilac, and violet of thistle, knapweed and scabious, the flowers spiraling open to the sky. "My mother used to make tea from wild roses," Isabella murmured, peering down at the ground and endeavoring to find the bloom of which he'd spoken. Her eyes widened as she spied the near-white petals, just hidden between the spiny brambles of gorse.

"Did she?" Mr. Maçon replied, his tone so indifferent she could not help glancing over her shoulder, uncertain if she was boring him. He was staring down at the reins in his hand, but she could tell his attention was elsewhere, his brow vaguely furrowed. When he spoke next, all of her resolve to disregard his call as any expression of his interest instantly died.

"Will you be attending the assembly ball in Penzance this sennight hence?"

"I—oh!" Isabella had been reaching for the stalk of the wild rose, but in looking over her shoulder, she did not realize the bandage on her injured hand had caught on the thorny gorse. She sucked in a breath as her gaze flew back to her hand, the sting she felt indicating the wrappings had pulled away from her skin—likely tearing the scab. "Oh, no," she murmured. Realizing she could not pluck the rose without tearing her bandage free, she dropped the basket she'd been holding and reached through the brambles, biting her lip as she tugged at the length of linen. Then glancing over her shoulder she began to explain, "I was closing the shutters and didn't—"

But he was gone.

Isabella's eyes widened with disbelief and then narrowed with confusion, her gaze darting around the wide open meadow. But Mr. Maçon was nowhere to be seen, the reins he'd been holding trailing over the ground, his placid mare languidly chewing a stalk of thistle as though nothing untoward had occurred.

"Mr. Maçon?" Isabella called. She briefly wondered if she'd imagined the entire encounter, but as her gaze returned to Mr. Moorland's horse, she knew she hadn't dreamt him from the ether. "Mr. Maçon?" she called again, raising her voice. But as a bird fluttered from the branches of a distant tree, its wings briefly beating a pulse against the sky, she somehow knew he was far gone.

Isabella could not help her shoulders abruptly sagging, her confusion overwhelming. Where had he gone? And why? Did he regret enquiring about the ball? But if he was so concerned about misleading her, he could have simply changed the subject rather than flee her company. And how could he have fled so quickly that there was no trace of his presence—but for Mr. Moorland's old mare, whose blank gaze gave away nothing?

"I don't understand," she whispered as she shook her head, eyes briefly squeezing shut. But there was no response to her query, the sky blue and clear, the only sound the gentle swish of the breeze through the high grasses around her.

Her sigh was a mixture of frustration and confusion as she stooped to retrieve her basket. She knew she could not return to the cottage without having fetched the blooms which had been her primary excuse for escaping the confines of the house; she would never hear the end of it from Sheil, however gleeful she knew her companion must be at having received such an illustrious caller. Quickly, Isabella began plucking an array of flowers, pinching the stems with sharp motions, uncaring of the milky sap staining her fingers. One word echoed over and over in her mind, unable to understand the events of the afternoon: _why?_

As the light grew shadowed, the sun slipping behind high clouds, Isabella glanced to the sky before her gaze fell to the basket in her hands. A veritable bouquet rested within, and she slowly realized she was lingering in the fallow field, hopeful, waiting for Mr. Maçon to return. Her gaze turned to the docile horse that had barely stirred as she'd angrily snapped flowers into her basket; she had never quite understood why Mr. Maçon always held tight to the mare's reins, for it seemed unlikely the horse would ever bolt. But, like so many other things about the foreign visitor, she had no idea as to the answer.

Sighing again, Isabella bent, scooping the reins from the ground. "Come," she bid the horse, nodding towards the distant opening in the low stone fence. She was unsurprised the horse did not balk, shuffling behind as Isabella made her way to the narrow track that would take them east to Swan Cottage. Though she suspected Mr. Moorland's mare would likely have wandered back to town of her own accord, Isabella could not have possibly left her without any notion of when Mr. Maçon would return.

Through the short journey back to the cottage, Isabella tried to deny that she was surveying the road for Mr. Maçon, eyes narrow as she kept her chin high. Where he had gone was not her concern. And it was only common sense that dictated she should ensure his horse didn't come to any harm. As she reached the cottage and knotted the reins of the mare around the wrought iron fence post nearest the gate, she told herself she was not at all disappointed he was not waiting on the stoop, a sensible explanation on his lips.

Sheil's voice instantly called out as the door creaked open. "I saved stew for ye, Isabella!"

Isabella's lips parted, suddenly longing to speak, longing to rush to her former nurse and pour out her confusion and disappointment in a torrent of words. But she did not speak, knowing such an outburst would only agitate the elderly woman—and that Sheil would likely jump to wilder conclusions than what Isabella had supposed over the course of the afternoon. Instead, she crossed to the dining room and carefully set her basket and bonnet on the far end of the table before moving to the high-backed chair where she usually took her meals. Her eyes remained fixed on the floor, unable to meet Sheil's gaze.

"Child?" Sheil was instantly all concern despite Isabella's restraint, the smile audibly fading from her voice. "I told the gentleman where ye—"

"Yes," Isabella interrupted shortly, the word cold—before she erupted with sudden passion, eyes blazing, "But I have no idea as to his intentions!"

There was a long silence in which Isabella's muscles grew tense and tight, breath held, waiting for Sheil's response. She berated herself for failing to hold her tongue, certain the former nursemaid was now going to subject her to a litany of probing questions. Isabella's mind churned, struggling to find a reason for her outburst that would satisfy the former nursemaid. To her surprise, Sheil simply regarded her with a grim, inscrutable expression before finally announcing, "I never heard tell of any man who did know his own mind." She exhaled, turning her attention to the cloak she'd been mending when Isabella returned. "Never ye mind him then."

Somehow, Isabella's mood instantly lightened at this response; it took all of her willpower to resist throwing her arms around her companion, certain this would only further pique Sheil's restrained curiosity. Instead, Isabella simply smiled before turning to the bowl of warm stew before her and reaching for the spoon.

The sky was just beginning to grow violet with dusk when a knock sounded on the door. They had retired to the front sitting room after Isabella finished eating and Sheil had cleared the table, their conversation consisting of only the necessary exchanges. Sheil, who had risen to light the candles on the mantle, turned a startled gaze to Isabella, who perched on the settee with a neglected book in her hands. Isabella knew her own gaze to be equally surprised, and her eyes only grew wider as Sheil simply turned back to the mantle, her voice pragmatic as she asked, "Well, ain't ye going to see to that?"

It took several seconds for Isabella to absorb Sheil's words. When she finally registered their meaning, she jumped up and darted towards the door; then, remembering the book in her hands, she lurched back to drop it on a side table before hurrying again towards the corridor.

She paused in the entryway, willing the flutter of her pulse to slow. It was darker here than in the front sitting room for there were no wide windows thrown open to the last streaks of daylight, nor candles or rushlights to illuminate the gloom. She didn't realize her eyes had adjusted to the darkness until she slowly opened the door and her pupils shrank in the blue gray light of dusk, rendering the figure on the steps a mere silhouette.

Though she could not immediately make out his countenance, the pang of something pained and regretful lay within his tone—however mannered and smooth his words. "Miss Swan," he paused. "I do hope you accept my apologies for my inexcusable behavior."

Slowly, his features came into focus and while his expression was reserved, she did not doubt the emotion she had heard in his voice. "Mr. Maçon," she tilted her head, a faint line forming between her brows. "If I offended you—"

"Offend me?" His tone turned almost angry, black eyes glinting in the gloom. "In what manner could you have possibly caused offense?" His gaze fell, and the bitterness that now tinged his words was unmistakable. "I am a cad."

"Mr. Maçon," Isabella could not help protesting, his name almost a plea on her lips. "Certainly not that." Her voice turned curious. "For there must have been some reason…?" She could not put into words what had occurred, not entirely certain how to express his actions, his flight, his abrupt disappearance without a word of explanation.

But if she had thought that she would come to understand the reason for his behavior through finally speaking with him, she slowly began to realize she was sorely mistaken. For he did not respond, his lips thinning as his gaze remained trained on the ground, his hands balled into fists at sides. As the silence lengthened, she found herself nervously laughing to break the tension, attempting to prompt him again, "Come, now," she smiled. "Perhaps a wasp I did not see frightened you away?"

Though his gaze rose, black eyes sparkling with reluctant amusement, he simply shook his head. "I cannot explain."

"But—" she began to protest, frowning again.

"I cannot," he repeated, the words firm.

Isabella fell silent, her skin suddenly chilled as she began to understand that he was not going to provide her with any kind of satisfactory answer. What was more, while she had always suspected that there was something mysterious about the foreign visitor, she suddenly sensed he was hiding something much bigger than she could possibly comprehend.

Mr. Maçon bowed. "Good night, Miss Swan." He paused before turning away. "Please do consider the danger of so often being alone."

Isabella swallowed, silently watching as his tall frame grew fainter in the dimming light, only speaking as she heard him unlatch the gate. "Good night, Mr. Maçon."


	8. The Ball

_Thank you so much for reading & reviewing._

* * *

_I am half afraid of this ball to-night; for, you know, I have never danced but at school: however, Miss Mirvan says there is nothing in it. Yet, I wish it was over._

_Evelina, or the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World  
__Fanny Burney_

**eight**

Isabella might have been forgiven for bursting into laughter at Sheil's response to the question, "Is it too late to ask Mrs. Berty to procure vouchers for the next assembly ball in Penzance?" For the older woman's features, usually set into a furrowed mask of mild suspicion and disapproval, smoothed with undisguised surprise, her mouth agape with shock. The knife she'd been holding as they broke their fast in the dining room clattered to the table.

"W-what?"

Isabella repeated the question through her laughter, "The assembly ball—shall we get vouchers?"

Though Sheil had uncharacteristically restrained her curiosity about whatever conversations had occurred between Isabella and Mr. Maçon the prior day, on this point she could not suppress her incredulity. "Are ye feeling ill, child?" When Isabella began laughing again, Sheil's expression turned stubborn, plump arms crossing over her breasts as she blustered, "Ye know ye have fought me tooth and nail on going to the dances! Why should ye suddenly have any interest in dancing now?" Even as she spoke the words, a look of wonder widened her eyes, her hands falling to her sides as she leaned forward, "Did the gentleman…?"

Isabella shook her head but her lips still tilted with a faint smile, "He did enquire as to my attendance but I won't pretend to know his reasoning."

"Aye, but ye certainly have changed your tune, haven't ye?" Sheil nodded knowingly as she leaned back, her own thin lips curving into a pleased smile. "I'm certain Mrs. Berty would be more than willing to get us tickets—perhaps ye can help me write a note directly."

Isabella nodded, returning her attention to her meal. While Sheil was able to sign her name and make out words with which she was familiar, she was not proficient at reading and writing and relied on Isabella to help her with any correspondence. Though she knew herself to be a perfectly adequate nursemaid and companion, Sheil had never pretended she was also capable of being a governess. It was Renée who had ultimately taught Isabella her letters.

Once finished with breakfast, Sheil led the way to the study and Isabella took a seat at her father's desk, removing a half-sheet of foolscap from the drawer. While Sheil dictated a quick letter to Mrs. Berty, Isabella scribbled the request with a quill she suspected would split upon its next use. When the former nursemaid was finished, Isabella rose to her feet to allow Sheil to sit down and carefully add her signature at the bottom of the page. Sheil then quickly dashed a handful of sand upon the ink to quicken its drying. "Be sure to ask Mr. Connor to also enquire at the coachman's so we can hire a carriage for that night."

So it was that Isabella found herself nervously standing before her vanity in her bedchamber, hands fidgeting at her sides, resisting the urge to tug at her gown or pat her hair. The room was lit by a single candle whose flame flickered in the reflection of the looking glass, giving her pale face a ghostly aspect; it was dark for the hour was late, the assembly balls always commencing at eight in the evening. She wished she could see her gown in greater detail for she still was not entirely certain she shouldn't change into the same dress she'd worn last year.

She had tried to protest when Sheil first insisted she have something to wear that everyone wouldn't recognize. "We have no money for such things!" But Sheil had simply waved a hand and disappeared abovestairs, reappearing moments later with an armful of rich yellow fabric striped in blue.

"We'll take it to Mr. Snow to be made over," Sheil had blithely explained as she shook out the polonaise that had once belonged to Renée. "Get rid of some of this drapery."

Isabella had been dubious and couldn't fully accept that the changes the dressmaker had made were so thorough as to disguise the origins of the dress. He had raised the waist of the old gown and removed much of the excess fabric that had contributed to the draped panels that poufed at the hips and rear. As Isabella was slightly taller than her mother had been, he'd then used the excess fabric to hem the skirt, which was also a bit shorter than the current fashion in order to deliberately reveal the petticoat beneath. He had not used the fabric to fill in the open front of the gown, and while round gowns had only recently become ubiquitous, Isabella hoped she'd merely appear eccentric rather than outmoded with her underskirt showing. It was a heavy petticoat she'd purchased from Mr. Snow precisely to wear with this dress, much finer than what she usually wore, the hem boasting a deep row of pleats.

She raised a hand to her hair, unable to resist patting the looped knot Sheil had pinned into place much higher than usual. "It'll emphasize the length of your neck, child," she'd insisted. Her gaze shifted to the sleeves of the gown, which had been shortened to reveal much of her upper arms, the lace that had once frilled the edges now removed. This was meant to allow her to wear the long gloves which were currently in fashion, but with her hand still heavily bandaged, she'd only donned one. The neckline was quite low but this was one element of fashion that had not changed from thirty years before. Isabella still could not resist tugging at it, certain her other evening gown was not so revealing.

"Are ye done fussing, child?" Sheil called up the stairwell. "The coach is here!"

With one final glance of trepidation to the looking glass, Isabella blew out the candle and flew from the room. Belowstairs, she donned her cloak before hurrying through the door Sheil held open; she glanced to the sky as she passed over the gravel path to the carriage waiting at the gate, her gaze caught by the full moon above. The stars were dim in comparison, rendered the faintest of marks by the bright glow. As the carriage door slapped shut behind Sheil, Isabella did not realize her gaze did not stray from the window, unable to resist watching as the moon followed them down the narrow road to the Coast Path.

Isabella knew the assembly balls were always scheduled to coincide with the fullest phase of the moon in order to allow attendees the most light by which to travel. Nonetheless, she could not help feeling a sense of foreboding despite her usual lack of superstition, a faint line forming between her brows as she forced her gaze to fall to her hands in her lap. She reminded herself it wasn't necessary to be superstitious about full moons to feel unsettled. After all, there were any number of matters about which she could harbor trepidation. What if Miss Rosalie Hale was in attendance at the ball; would the tall blonde behave as rudely as she had in the past? Would Mr. Maçon, the source of her anticipation, even be in attendance? And if he was, would he flee her company as he'd done once before? What if neither Miss Hale nor Mr. Maçon bothered to attend, and she spent the entirety of the evening in bored disappointment, listening to Mrs. Berty and Sheil gossip about the other attendees?

These thoughts occupied her mind for the majority of the journey through towns that had grown dark and shuttered with night, but for the few lamps that provided a halo of yellow outside public houses which would be open for business as long as there were customers to serve. If Sheil sensed Isabella's disquiet, she gave no indication, chattering with excitement of the people she hoped to see, and how she expected Mrs. Berty would be wearing the turban she'd mentioned purchasing in her last letter.

As the roads were dry and the sky was cloudless, allowing the bright moon to guide the way, they were soon at their destination. The assembly hall had been built less than fifteen years before and Isabella could recall how excited her mother had been at the news, anticipating with her usual enthusiasm the opportunity to dance and play cards, listen to music, however rustic, and enjoy the company of the local gentry. How different Renée might have felt from her daughter, who could not help her slightly sickly expression as she jockeyed with the crowd that had congested in the vestibule of the hall, discarding cloaks and great coats, calling greetings, and straightening cravats and skirt hems.

Isabella's expression remained wary and pale as she passed from the vestibule into the main hall, her gaze self-consciously trained on her exposed bosom and wishing she had a fan behind which to hide. A voice caught her attention almost the instant in which she crossed the threshold, her gaze jerking from her breasts with a hot blush of embarrassment. "Miss Swan, how good to see you here."

"Mr. M-Maçon," she stuttered, lifting her hands as if to cool her cheeks and then abruptly dropping them as she realized she was acting a flustered idiot. "How do you do?" she finally managed.

"Quite well," he bowed and her eyes narrowed to see the slightest hint of amusement in his dark gaze. "I trust your journey was uneventful."

"Quite," she responded tightly, but Sheil utterly undermined her attempt at haughtiness by brightly chiming in.

"The moon's nearly as bright as the sun tonight, isn't it? Our trip was perhaps the quickest it's ever been!"

"That is indeed wonderful news," Mr. Maçon bowed to her companion, his smile widening. Then, turning back to Isabella, he asked, "Do I have permission to secure your hand for the first dance?"

Isabella's cheeks grew heated again, her narrowed eyes growing wide at this abrupt shift in subject—and that he should be so unhesitating in paying her this attention.

"Y-yes," she stuttered again, and bit her lip in consternation, frustrated she was unable to act as unaffected as he appeared to be.

Mr. Maçon turned back to Sheil, "And I trust you will allow me to join you both for supper?"

Sheil's smile was unrelentingly bright, her hand lifted in an almost flirtatious wave, "But of course, Mr. Maçon!"

He glanced over his shoulder quickly and bowed once more, "But do not let me monopolize you." His black eyes focused on Isabella's pale face, "I will find you for my dance."

She could have sworn to feel her cheeks blooming with heat again, but was soon distracted by the exuberant greeting of Mrs. Berty and her dour husband, who was a solicitor in nearby Heamoor. "My dear, how wonderful your gown! And Sheil has dressed your hair quite finely!" Her voice dropped to a whisper as she glanced over her shoulder, "Is that the French gentleman I've heard so much of? He is quite handsome!"

Fortunately, Sheil was full of enough chatter for she and Isabella both, launching into the tale of Mr. Maçon's visit to the cottage, the rumors she'd heard from Mr. Eldritch, and the reason she'd indulged in having an old gown altered for her charge. "I couldn't dare let Isabella show her face in the same gown she's worn these past four years."

Mrs. Berty nodded her head in adamant agreement, failing to notice Mr. Berty's bow to both Isabella and Sheil before he mumbled something about the card room and promptly disappeared into the crowd. Isabella watched him go with a gaze that was almost sorrowful, wishing she could go with him.

"Miss Swan!" She started as Mr. James Eldritch Junior appeared before her, seeming to have leapt from the crowd milling around them.

"Mr. James," she responded, uncertain where to look for his blue eyes were so eager and bright.

"I am so pleased to see you in attendance," he bowed, his blond hair nearly sweeping into his eyes with the motion.

"Why—thank you," she finally responded, noticing with the faintest frown that he appeared to be having trouble raising his gaze much higher than the neckline of her gown.

"Would you do me the honor of allowing me the first dance?"

The abrupt cessation of Mrs. Berty and Sheil's chatter might have otherwise caused her to laugh, but she was so dismayed by Mr. James' attention that she could only flush instead. Her voice was low when she replied, "I'm afraid I've promised that dance to another."

His expression was so surprised, eyes wide, mouth momentarily gaping, that she could feel nothing but insulted, her own gaze narrowing at his presumption. Why should he be the only one who wished to stand up with her? Fortunately for Mr. James, he quickly recovered, smiling and bowing his head before he asked, "Then the second dance—please say you will be my partner."

Though she longed to deny the young man, her chin high with pride, Isabella knew it would be the height of rudeness and simply nodded her head, forcing herself to tightly smile. "As you wish."

His responding smile was bright and she momentarily regretted her reluctance to be in his company; perhaps it was Sheil's influence, always so disapproving and full of suspicion.

But there was no time to dwell on this thought for the string quartet at the far end of the hall had begun tuning their instruments, indicating they would soon launch into the first minuet. "Don't dawdle, child!" Sheil hissed behind her, a firm hand in the small of Isabella's back, urging her forward.

She moved slowly towards the cluster of dancers forming at the far end of the room, barely able to lift her gaze from the floor, certain this moment could not be real. She had only rarely participated in the dancing at past balls, and had never stepped forward for the first dance—much less with such a handsome, well-mannered gentleman.

Only she did not see Mr. Maçon, finally lifting her head to crane her neck in an attempt to peer over the crowd, her hands curling into nervous fists before her. Perhaps it was all in jest, his interest in her only a mockery…

"I'm here," a low voice murmured behind her.

Isabella spun on her heel, eyes wide, unaware of how the sheen of her gown caught the light of the candles in the chandelier above. An expression of relief swiftly replaced the worry and trepidation that had been evident on her pale face, a smile curling over her lips. "Mr. Maçon," she curtsied.

He bowed deeply, his half-smile a mixture of amusement and something more as his dark eyes rested on her figure. Isabella found she could look no where else, her gaze fixed on his as the string quartet struck up the first notes of the minuet.

Somehow, she made her way through the steps of the dance, breath caught in her throat, eyes bright, listening to the conversation of the other partners around her as though in a daze. To her surprise, Mr. Maçon's attention seemed equally fixed, his gaze rarely leaving her upturned face, his half-smile unrelenting as he took her gloved hand and they promenaded the length of the hall.

It was only as they moved into the third figure that she was startled from her reverie. For, as he gently took her opposite hand for the second promenade, the bare skin of her ungloved fingers just brushed the expanse of pale skin between the linen of his shirt cuff and the silk of his glove.

It was as if a spark from a fire stoked too high had landed against her fingertips—yet, somehow, the sensation was cold as well, as if she'd plunged only that expanse of skin into the ocean on a winter's day. It took all of her willpower not to flinch—though her lips parted in shock, her gaze flying to his as she nearly faltered in the measured steps of the minuet. She was somehow relieved to find him equally startled, his dark eyes on her own, before he quickly recovered, his expression smoothing into mild indifference.

Isabella forced her mouth to close, struggling for the calm he was so easily demonstrating—but her eyes remained wide as she focused on executing the steps of the dance, forcing herself to release his hand though she longed to tighten her grip. Her gaze fell to the shining parquet beneath her feet as she turned and promenaded the length of the hall alone, breathing in time to the music so that she wouldn't rush to the fourth figure—where she knew they would join hands once more.

But he had subtly shaken his cuff into place, lids low over his eyes as he finally spoke, the words unerringly polite, "I trust your hand has begun to mend."

Isabella nodded shortly, swallowing before she responded. "Sheil believes I'll be able to go without bandages in a day or two."

Mr. Maçon bowed his head as they proceeded again down the hall. "She is knowledgeable in these matters."

Isabella nodded again as he released her hands, then paused as the dance brought them to the first figure; the distance between them was too great to continue speaking. The strings struck up the second passage and he bowed forward, taking her gloved hand once more. "My mother was quite the nurse," Isabella confessed, quickly glancing around the hall to try to ascertain whether Rosalie Hale was present. "And Sheil wanted to learn as much as she could."

"A wise decision."

Isabella finally smiled, having managed to recover her senses enough to respond with wry normalcy. "Sheil prefers to be useful." But her cheeks were still pale beneath the glow of the candles for she could not forget the strange sensation that had so startled her upon touching the heated chill of the skin at his wrist.

"She has been with you for some time?" he enquired, one black brow rising slightly with the question.

Isabella nodded as they again promenaded the length of the hall. "She was my father's nurse before me."

"You must tell her I anticipate amusing tales of your childhood at supper then." His smile was rakish as he bowed low with the final figure of the dance.

Isabella was grateful her cheeks only grew slightly warm, her gaze cast to the shining parquet before she recalled she must applaud the efforts of the musicians. She turned her eyes to the far end of the hall but could not see the players through the throng of people; when she looked back to Mr. Maçon to comment on the crowd, she found he was gone.

She realized she was more disappointed than surprised at this discovery and vowed to tease him for his abrupt departures when she saw him at supper—for having now mentioned the matter twice, she was relatively certain she would see him at that time. Though she could not imagine the reason for it, his interest in her was no jest.

She was disrupted from these thoughts by an eager voice, "Miss Swan!" It was James Eldritch Junior, ducking his head as he attempted to catch her distracted gaze. "I believe it has come time for me to claim my dance."

Isabella managed a faint smile but as the quartet struck up another minuet, she found she could not concentrate on the conversation Mr. James was attempting to make; her mind returned, again and again, to Mr. Maçon and his mysterious behavior, wondering what could be the reason for his sudden flights—and what lay at the heart of the burning sensation that had accompanied touching his bare wrist.

"Miss Swan?"

Isabella's eyes abruptly focused and she realized she'd been passing through the dance as though in a dream, her thoughts entirely elsewhere. "I apologize, Mr. James. What were you saying?"

His blue eyes narrowed, his full lips twisting ever so slightly as he repeated himself, "I was asking whether any sheep had gotten trapped in your garden again." His tone was peevish, rendering the playful comment flat.

Nonetheless, Isabella smiled lightly, "Thankfully, no." As they stepped into the first figure and then joined hands again to begin a second promenade, she added, "Mr. Bannion must be herding his flock far from Swan Cottage."

"But everyone knows what fondness animals have for you!" Mr. James laughed, his mood lightening in turn. "Even my father's unruly horse calms when we pass the time at your home."

Isabella frowned, caught unawares by the idea that her strange affinity for animals both wild and tame was a characteristic well-known to others. She had always assumed it to be an odd ability that would gain little notice if she made no attempt to demonstrate it in front of anyone. But clearly, it was more comment-worthy than she knew. Perhaps her offense at Mr. Maçon's teasing was less justifiable than she realized.

"Miss Swan?"

Isabella started for she had become lost in thought again, Mr. James' voice nearly irate as he attempted to regain her attention. His grip upon her gloved hand tightened momentarily and she spoke quickly, pretending a lack of familiarity with the minuet. "I do apologize, Mr. James. It is such a rare instance in which I dance these steps."

"You performed well enough with Mr. Maçon." There was no mistaking the peevishness in his tone now, nor the tight grip of his fingers around her own. Isabella's lips grew thin, refusing to apologize or explain any further; she had no desire to be in Mr. James' good graces and saw no point in making excuses. He had been an entitled, priggish youth whenever she had encountered him as a child, and he was no different now.

Seeing she would make no further comment, his features grew dark with anger, blond brows low over his eyes, lips mulish beneath the faint shadow of his mustache. Isabella briefly wondered if he would be so rude as to abandon her in the midst of the dance, but he managed to remain gentleman enough to finish out the final figure, turning to applaud the musicians at the far end of the room before abruptly striding away.

Isabella could feel nothing so much as bewilderment, her brow knit with a mixture of emotions; dismay with herself for having failed to maintain a modicum of manners with Mr. James, annoyance with the young man for his easily-damaged pride, lingering confusion at Mr. Maçon's strange habits, disbelief in his preference for her company, and a general sense of fascination with him as a person. With this tumult swirling inside, she could not have forborne another dance; she kept her gaze carefully trained upon her slippers as she made her way to the card room, sighing with relief when she found it nearly empty.

A round table nearest the door was occupied by a trio of players who were all intently focused upon their game of whist; Mr. Berty was among their number, but his gaze was so focused upon his hand that he did not note Isabella's appearance. Several other tables were arranged within, but their chairs remained empty as the majority of the crowd had only just arrived and had not yet wearied their feet with dancing, milling about the main hall making conversation with acquaintances and friends, or listening to the music.

A fire roared behind a screen in the far corner, an array of upholstered armchairs clustered near its warmth; Isabella saw these too were unoccupied and hurried over, hopeful the high back of the armchair would conceal her presence from any casual observers as long as she fully turned it to face the fire. She did not think she could begin to form any responses to the questions Sheil might ask, and sank into the chair grateful for a respite from any conversation.

She had just begun to convince herself she had imagined the strange sensation she'd felt when her bare fingertips had accidentally brushed Mr. Maçon's wrist when the voices of other revelers began to sound behind her. The final minuet had ended and the musicians were briefly pausing before playing the reels and cotillions that would constitute the remainder of the dances for the evening.

Isabella knew she should rise, that the upholstered chairs and hearty fire were for the more elderly attendees who would refrain from dancing and feel the chill of the hall more distinctly. What's more, Sheil was likely wondering where she had gone and Isabella didn't want her companion to worry. She lingered, though, reluctant to return to the revelry, recalling with sudden clarity why she had always resisted Sheil's constant prodding to attend these events. She had never enjoyed crowds, felt herself to be a competent dancer at best, and struggled to make conversation with those she didn't know well. As she gazed down at her lap, plucking at the fabric of her dress, she wished she could sometimes be more like her mother and enjoy the ball independent of the reason that had prompted her to attend.

"Mr. Biers was so kind as to ask me to dance!" A breathless voice distracted Isabella from her thoughts, likely no more than a few paces behind the chair where she was hiding.

"Oh, Philomena! As if it could be a surprise." The second voice gently laughed. "Did he not call at your house after services last Sunday?"

"'Tis true though I can scarcely believe it! Mother says he has two thousand a year and a coach of his own."

"Aye, but Bristol is such a distance from Penzance. Should we ever see you again?"

"Fie, Mary! Have you already married me off when the gentleman has but asked for one dance!"

"And called at your house!" The second speaker protested. "What good fortune he knew your brother from university. If only I had a brother…"

"A brother who might introduce you to Mr. Maçon?" The first speaker archly asked.

"Philomena!" Mary hissed. "Pray keep your voice down." Isabella could feel her cheeks flush and knew it was not due to the glow of the fire warming her face.

"La, Mary, as if we're the only ones here discussing the handsome Frenchman. Have you heard him speak? His accent is divine…"

"How quickly you have forgotten your Mr. Biers!"

"Come, Mary, don't be jealous." Philomena's teasing tone rapidly shifted to sincere pleading. "As if Mr. Maçon has eyes for anyone except Isabella Swan."

"Can you imagine!" Mary rejoined, having recovered her spirits. "Such a gentleman, so refined." Isabella's hands had curled into such tight fists in her lap that her nails would have pierced her palms had she not sported a bandage on one hand and a glove on the other.

"He must have a fortune," Philomena breathed. "He is easily the most finely dressed of all the gentlemen here."

"As if Mr. Crowley or Mr. Brett could hope to compare," Mary snorted. "Half the gentlemen here look as if they could scarcely tell their dancing slippers from their riding boots. Mr. Crowley near crushed my toes in the last minuet."

"Mother heard tell Mr. Maçon's grandmother was a viscountess in France."

"I would not doubt it," Mary replied. "What could be the reason for his interest in Isabella Swan?"

"Did you not see her arrive?" Philomena asked. "She is quite fair—"

"But poor as a church mouse!" Mary protested.

"Aye, but if he has a fortune he can marry where he wishes, can he not?" Philomena asked. "I have not seen her in some time as she only rarely comes to the market here in Penzance—but she is as fair as I recall, and much improved with a new gown."

"Fair?" Mary scoffed. "I do not believe it. Is she not dark-haired? And I've heard she's no servants to speak of. No, she must be black as a farm hand!"

"You arrived too late to see her dancing with Mr. Maçon—her complexion is enviable—" Philomena attempted to protest.

"Certainly more so than Miss Hale," Mary laughed.

"You are too cruel!" Philomena laughed in turn.

"It's the only explanation," Mary rejoined through breathless laughter. "She has enchanted him—with whatever sorcery she inherited from her mother."

Isabella could listen to no more. She surged from her chair, uncaring of whether the two young girls witnessed her flight, and hurried from the card room as swiftly as her feet would carry her.


	9. Phænomenon

_Apologies for the delay. Thank you so much for reading & reviewing._

* * *

_These are Matters of Fact, which I assure you they are truely related. But these, and all others that occurred to me…could never lead me into a remote Conjecture of the Cause of so extraordinary a Phænomenon. Whither it be a Quality in the Eyes of some People…concurring with a Quality in the Air…whither such Species be every where, tho not seen by the Want of Eyes so qualified—or from whatever other Cause, I must leave to the Inquiry of clearer judgements than mine._

_The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies, Robert Kirk_

**nine**

"Sheil, my head is pounding." The low voice was imbued with such pain that Sheil swiftly turned around, her attention immediately drawn from the tale of Mrs. Berty's most recent trip to Falmouth.

Though words of protest instinctively rose to her tongue, Sheil's lips thinned with surprise and concern upon finding Isabella unmistakably affected; her pallor was sickly and white, her brow knit with a deep frown, her hands trembling at her sides. "Child, what's happened?" Sheil swiftly shifted from her initial response, raising a gloved hand to Isabella's elbow.

But the dark haired girl simply shook her head, her teeth cutting into her bottom lip until the pink flesh paled with lack of blood. "I'm certain Mrs. Berty has hartshorn…" But Isabella shook her head again and Sheil turned to Mrs. Berty, who had fallen silent with equal concern. "Would ye be so kind as to ask the maid to fetch our wraps? I'll see to the footman." Mrs. Berty nodded before she turned and made her way through the crowd towards the vestibule.

Sheil hesitated, then ducked her head in an attempt to catch Isabella's gaze, endeavoring one last time to convince her charge to stay. "Are ye certain a glass of ratafia won't set ye to rights?"

Isabella shook her head violently, brown eyes rising from her feet as she pleaded. "I just want to go home." The torment apparent in her gaze was answer enough for Sheil. She took Isabella's hand in a firm grip and led the way through the throng of people, following in Mrs. Berty's wake. The maid was waiting in the vestibule with their wraps and Sheil was relieved to see Mrs. Berty already in conversation with the footman, who would see to calling their carriage.

"Thank ye, Mrs. Berty. Ye are a savior."

Mrs. Berty simply nodded before placing a gentle hand on Isabella's shoulder. "See you get some rest, Miss Swan." Then, to Sheil she added, "Perhaps a bit too much excitement for one night."

Sheil simply nodded, then exhaled with relief as the footman gestured from the doorway, indicating their carriage was ready. "Good evening, Mrs. Berty."

"Good evening to you, too."

Then they were out in the cold air of the spring evening, the bright moon partially obscured by high clouds above. Sheil gestured for Isabella to step into the carriage first, wary the poor girl might faint given how clammy her hand had felt when Sheil took it in her own moments ago. It was only when the carriage was rattling down the cobblestone roads of Penzance that Sheil spoke again, certain there must be something more behind their sudden departure. It was difficult to believe that after asking to attend the ball she'd always merely tolerated, and receiving the pointed attentions of such eligible gentlemen, that Isabella could have had such an abrupt change of heart.

"Child, did something happen?" A sudden thought occurred to her. "I would have expected Miss Hale to open the ball had she been present—did she arrive late and snub ye?"

"No," Isabella's voice was a near moan and, as the moon shone through the carriage windows, Sheil could see she'd raised her hands to her head, gripping her skull as though she might force the headache away with sheer will. "Please, Sheil. No one was unkind to me."

At least, Isabella thought, no one had openly snubbed her. But she saw no use in riling her former nursemaid with the details of the conversation she'd overheard. Sheil would likely lose her temper and froth at the mouth for the duration of the ride back to Mousehole, lamenting the poor manners of the two girls, likely chiding Isabella for failing to rise from her hiding place more quickly and cutting the conversation short, and finishing the tirade with curses at the Fates themselves when she recalled Mr. Maçon was waiting to sup with them.

Sheil sighed loudly but remained silent for the remainder of the journey; Isabella could see her arms were crossed over her breasts in the dim shadows of the carriage's interior, her lips a thin line. This set expression only shifted to one of surprise, and then suspicion, when the carriage drew to a halt before Swan Cottage.

Isabella did not first comprehend the reason for this change in Sheil's demeanor, too distracted by her own thoughts and the faint but lingering pounding of her head to attend to why her companion was bidding the coachman to wait at the gate. "I'll be out directly should we find it's simply the candle that's gone out." It was only as Isabella registered the unrelieved darkness that made navigating the gravel path from the gate to the door more difficult than usual that she realized the lantern was missing. Sheil usually left it hanging on a hook next to the door, a fat tallow candle anchored within.

As Isabella carefully climbed the front steps, wondering at the clouds that had so swiftly obscured the bright moon, her gaze was involuntarily drawn to the left of the door—for there was a light inside, a hazy glow of yellow flickering behind the drapes of the front sitting room windows. "Well, I'll be…" Sheil whispered as she flung open the front door and hurried into the corridor. "Who's there? Meg, ye know ye can't run away from home every time ye get in a tussle with your brother—"

Isabella followed her former nursemaid with measured steps, a knot of certainty growing within that it was not Meg in the front sitting room, nor Mrs. Hammet—nor anyone they knew. The pounding in her head abruptly ceased as she drew up behind Sheil at the threshold and peered over her shoulder, breath caught in her chest. Isabella's eyes widened as she saw the seemingly innocuous figure of an old woman sitting in an armchair before the cold grate of the fireplace; there was but a small circle of light from the lantern on the cherry table before her, the room otherwise shadowed and dark, the tallow candle throwing fluttering figures across the papered walls. "Well, and who might ye be?!" Sheil cried, her voice filled with wary affront.

The old woman lifted her gaze from where her hands rested limply in her lap, her wrinkled features illuminated by the flame of the candle dancing within the glass panes of the lantern. The breath Isabella had been holding whooshed from her lungs in one gasp, a hand rising to her lips with the shock of seeing her eyes—and knowing who this woman was without any doubt.

"Marie Aecenbotme." Her voice was raspy with age but there was no mistaking the French accent that marked the words. "Isabella's grandmother." Her white hair was pulled into a neat knot at her crown, the violet fabric of her gown just visible beneath the folds of her heavy black cloak.

"It can't be," Sheil exhaled, all of her bravado draining from her figure as she took one hesitant step into the room.

"I could not come before," Marie spoke calmly, her gaze shifting to the settee opposite the chair in which she sat. "And I cannot stay long. Isabella, please come—there is much to discuss."

Sheil struggled to recover from her shock, her voice dubious as she attempted to protest, "Now, ye can't just turn up in the middle of the night—"

"But, Sheil," Isabella raised a hand to her companion's arm, realizing it was necessary to intervene. "Can't you see it's true?" Though the old woman's eyes were faded with age, her gaze was too unusual to deny the claim that she was Renée's mother. For were their eyes not exactly the same? Like Renée, Marie's eyes did not reflect the same color; even in the shadowed lantern light, Isabella could see her right eye was a cloudy blue, while the other glittered green as a jewel. It was one of the few things about which Renée had felt any self-consciousness, often keeping her gaze downcast when being introduced to people she had never met before. When Isabella was a child, her mother had often commented on how grateful she was that her daughter had inherited Charles' brown eyes.

"Aye, but—"

"Sheil, you should see to the coachman." Isabella's voice was firm, her gaze steady. "I can meet with Marie and see to the spare bedchamber."

Sheil hesitated, her brow furrowed as she turned to Isabella, blue eyes filled with worry. Finally, with a grumble of dissatisfaction, she turned from the room. Isabella soon heard the slam of the front door from the corridor.

Marie regarded the younger woman with an unwavering gaze for several seconds before her eyes again fell to her lap. Finally, she exhaled, "How I wish I could have come sooner." The words were poignant, imbued with wistfulness and bitterness. "But the unrest…and now that upstart, Bonaparte…" Her voice trailed into silence before she briskly shook her head. "But it is no use regretting things that cannot be undone."

Isabella had drawn further into the room and now sank into the settee opposite the bent figure of her grandmother. "_Mére_ spoke of you often," Isabella responded quietly. "Of you, of home. Of Brocéliande and galettes and all the things she missed."

Marie's lips curved into a thin smile. "The forest. Yes, Brocéliande—she was there often as a girl. As was I, and my mother before me." Her eyes narrowed, her expression suddenly focused and shrewd. "But tell me, _ma fille_—your mother must have spoken to you of things other than her homeland."

Isabella's brow furrowed, confused, the question so pointed that she felt there must be something implied by the words that she did not quite understand. "But of course." She listed the first things that came to mind. "Because Father was often away, she spoke of him incessantly," Isabella could not help a small smile. "And her garden—the flowers she wished to plant and the herbs she wished to harvest. And—"

Marie shook her head impatiently, a disapproving huff of breath shooting past her lips. "Bah, no, no!" Her uncanny eyes fixed on Isabella's oval face, brows low. "Your schooling—your lessons."

Isabella tilted her head, still failing to understand why, after years of silence, upon finally seeing the granddaughter she had never had the opportunity to meet, this was the first thing Marie wished to know. "I did not have a governess but _Mére_ taught me my letters—as well as pianoforte, embroidery, a little Latin—"

That explosive huff of air burst past Marie's lips again and she shifted in her chair with impatience. "Bah, child! I do not speak of these things. I speak of the other arts."

Isabella's brow furrowed more deeply, at a loss and desperately wishing she understood why this was so important. "I know not what you speak of. Greek? The classics? I admit to having only read the Iliad in English—"

But Marie would hear no more, one wrinkled hand cutting through the air with an impatient gesture. "No, Isabella!" She peered at her granddaughter, her expression a mixture of disbelief and frustration. "Do you mean to tell me your mother never schooled you on your birthright?"

For several seconds Isabella found she could not breathe, the room completely silent as she distantly thought how strange it was to see her mother so distinctly in the gaze of this older woman—and yet Marie was so utterly unlike Renée, her back bowed, her face a maze of lines, her voice filled with rasping impatience, that the impression was like seeing a painting dissolve beneath water, the oils bleeding and swirling before her eyes. Slowly, she realized she must respond though she feared the answer to her query, her hands trembling in her lap. "My birthright?"

Marie did not hesitate, her eyes wide as she leaned forward, outrage apparent in her tone. "Do you mean to tell me Renée never schooled you in _les dons_?" Isabella's lips parted, her eyes wide, Marie's final words echoing in her head like a gong.

_Les dons._

The gifts.

Isabella sank back against the settee, as if she could physically escape the implication of Marie's words, her cheeks pale, eyes wide and staring. She longed to dismiss the aged woman's words as madness—perhaps due to her years, or all that she'd likely seen during the turmoil of the revolution. But somewhere in her heart she knew Marie was as sharp as a knife and would not speak nonsense.

As if Isabella's shocked reaction contained all she needed to know, Marie continued without waiting for a response. "Bah!" She waved a hand again, the motion disgustedly dismissive. "I might have guessed my daughter would try to shield you." Her gaze narrowed as she leaned forward again, her stare intent and thoughtful, as if she was listening to something Isabella could not hear. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. "But it matters not, does it? For you are blessed, whatever Renée may have desired." Her eyes sank shut as she slowly nodded her head. "And you know as much, do you not? The signs, they are present. It is clear as day."

Isabella began to shake her head, the movement becoming violent as she struggled to find her voice. But her lips were dry, her mouth full of sand as she tried to protest, tried to pretend she had no understanding of what Marie was saying. "I-I…"

But Marie would not listen, her certainty like a rod straightening her bent spine, her voice blithely dismissive as she interrupted, "You may plead ignorance with me all you like but I can see you know, _jeune fille_. Even if I were not blessed myself." She leaned forward again, gnarled hands braced upon her knees, "I can see it in your eyes. You know." She paused and Isabella was relieved to see Marie's shrewd gaze fall to her lap again. It was a reprieve that allowed her to gather her thoughts, struggling to think of some way to convince her grandmother that she was wrong, that she spoke of superstition and fairy tales and Isabella wanted no part of it.

But Marie's next question knocked the breath from Isabella's lungs as effectively as if she'd fallen from a horse while at full gallop across a field.

"You know when someone is coming, mayhap hours before they arrive?'

Isabella's eyes swiftly sank shut as she lifted hands curled into fists before her heart, denial on her lips though she could not breathe, could not speak. And even as she fought to say the words, her mind was filled with memories, so many memories, too many occurrences to count.

Rising from her knees in the garden, certain she'd heard the wagon wheels of Mr. Connor's cart…then waiting at the gate, a hand shielding her eyes, bemused by the empty road before her gaze. Hurrying from the house on some pretense, filled with anticipation...no, more than anticipation. Expectation. And though she could not have articulated it until she'd heard the gallop of his horse's hooves, she had known.

How often had she bid Sheil to heat water for tea, suspecting Mr. Eldritch would pay a call on his way to St. Buryan? She had always told herself that it was simply a matter of timing, that anyone could predict when the older gentleman would call if they knew the intervals at which he visited his son and daughter-in-law. But with Marie's gimlet eyes trained upon her, Isabella knew such denials would hold no water.

Marie did not need a response to know the answer to her question. She went on, "And mayhap you know other things—though you do not know how you know." Though Isabella could not breathe, could not speak, she found herself nodding, the air gushing from her lungs as if a great weight had been lifted from her chest.

Marie nodded though there was little satisfaction in the movement, her gaze resigned as it fell to her lap, her voice tinged with sadness as she spoke, "Renée could always tell when a storm was near."

Isabella finally found her voice. "I cannot—" The words died abruptly as she thought of the rain the other day, the hail pattering down, the shutter banging against her hand. It suddenly ached.

Marie's eyes widened ever so slightly as she saw Isabella was no longer filled with protests. "Yes, but other things. Yes?

Isabella's gaze was cast to the shadowed carpets, her bandaged hand curled into a fist, the words passing her lips with effort, unable to fully overcome her reluctance. She could not help thinking that at any moment she would awake in her bed, restless and clammy beneath the sheets, all of this a hazy dream. "Visitors, sometimes." Her voice was soft. "But nothing of import." Her gaze rose. "I did not know when my father passed, though _Mére_ somehow knew—"

Marie nodded her head sharply. "Yes, and had Renée given you guidance, you might have developed your ability." She sighed deeply.

"And I have not her talent in the garden," Isabella went on. She bit her lip as she recalled the gaudy roses that had seemed to open overnight beneath her mother's ministrations. She had always thought it a childhood memory distorted by time. "Though I am told I have a talent with other living things." Her lips quirked as she thought of Mr. Maçon's teasing.

Marie nodded, as if this was to be expected. "But what else?" Her gaze cast around the room though Isabella somehow knew she did not see its contents, the papered walls, the basket of mending, the worn rugs. "My mother, your great grandmother, was a...we would say _invocateur_. You might say—" she squinted, searching for the word.

"Summoner. Caller."

Isabella could not have thought to endure any further shocks to her system, but somehow she was still upright, the fabric of her cloak rough beneath her fingertips, beneath hands that twitched and flexed, as if the movements could force her mind to accept this was all real.

Marie sensed her stunned reaction despite the gloom of the room, her voice insistent as she commanded, "Tell me."

Isabella hesitated only a moment. "After _Mére_ died," she paused as she was taken back to that day, to the confusion and grief, the unbearable loss. Her eyes were wide but unseeing, recalling how the sun had faded from the bedchamber windows, her mother still and gray upon the white sheets. Mr. Cameron had been kind enough to come and administer last rites as Renée wished, and now he stood with Sheil, their voices whispers as they discussed the arrangements.

"Yes, child," Marie urged her.

Isabella blinked before her gaze fell to her hands. Her voice was flat when she spoke. "I was distraught. I knew it was for the best—Sheil cannot bear to speak of it now, but at the time she said it was only heartbreak that could have killed my mother's spirit. Only losing my father could have made her so ill." Isabella inhaled. "I knew it was for the best that she and my father finally be together." She shook her head. "But I could not help my sadness. When Sheil was preparing supper, after Mr. Cameron had left to fetch the undertaker…I ran from the cottage."

Marie's eyes abruptly glazed over, and Isabella could not help her fascination, watching closely as the older woman spoke as though in a trance. "And you became lost."

Isabella nodded though she knew her grandmother's eyes did not see her. "Yes, in the woods. _Mére_ died at dusk and it had grown quite dark." Isabella shook her head. "I had no purpose in mind." But she could not bear to stay in the cottage where that gray figure lay, not at all like the vibrant, gay woman her mother had been. "I lost sight of the road and could not hear the ocean." She shook her head, thinking how reckless she had been to careen through the forest in the dark of night. "I thought to find my way back," she whispered, recalling how she had suspected she was nearer the Hammets' property rather than her own. Yet the light she knew she should see in the dark of the woods was no where to be found. "Hours passed and I became cold." Her eyes sank shut, thinking of that desperate moment, the fear that had chilled her blood, her bare hands curled against her lips for warmth. "I did not call aloud—"

Marie's eyes grew clear. "But it was in your thoughts."

Isabella nodded. "And Mr. Hammet found me."

Marie sank back into the chair, her gaze weary. "It is as I suspected." She shook her head. "But there is no time to train you..." she paused, her gaze narrowing and filled with curiosity rather than censure as she regarded her granddaughter over the flickering light of the lantern. "And I sense you do not wish to be trained."

Isabella hesitated, her eyes wide, before she spoke haltingly. "I have not fully convinced myself this is not all-all fancy..." And what's more, that in pursuing such things she would not risk standing out even further as an oddity than was already the case.

But Marie silenced her lingering denials with one low, authoritative word—a name, though it was not Isabella she was speaking to, nor anyone living.

"Renée."

Isabella sucked in a breath as wind moaned down the chimney, stirring the ashes in the grate, chilling her skin, and, despite the glass panes that protected the candle within the lantern, snuffing out its flame.

Despite the black gloom that had shadowed the far corners of the front sitting room with only the tallow candle to illuminate its contents, it took several seconds for Isabella's pupils to dilate with the sudden lack of light. Those seconds felt like an eternity, her breath panting from her lungs with fear, certain a ghostly specter was soon going to loom in the doorway.

As her eyes adjusted, Isabella's breath began to ease as she saw nothing in the room had shifted, her grandmother's form quiet and bowed in the chair, uncanny eyes closed against the darkness. "_Grandmére_?" Isabella whispered, eyes wide, the race of her heartbeat only beginning to slow as her gaze darted around the room once more to ensure no shrouded corpse had suddenly appeared.

But Marie did not stir, and Isabella found her attention abruptly drawn from the silent figure by the soft tap of rain drops against the leaded glass panes of the sitting room windows. Her gaze grew wide as the patter rapidly grew, soon becoming an incessant thunder; she could not quite comprehend that the weather had shifted so suddenly from the clear skies of only a few hours before. Her breath quickened once again, though she reminded herself that she had nothing to fear, that the tapping and scratching she heard was simply the surrounding tree branches against the cottage roof, the wind churned into a fury beyond the stone walls.

Nonetheless, Isabella was nearly set to rise, fear and confusion swirling in her stomach and giving her the sense that the floor was set to capsize beneath her feet. She wasn't certain what she intended to do—to shake her grandmother from her stupor, to flee from the dark room and find her former nursemaid abovestairs, to duck into the black of night and shower of rainfall in an effort to escape the truth of what this torrent was bringing. She simply knew she could no longer be still.

Only Marie was on her feet first, her figure surprisingly erect, her visage a blank mask as she turned on unerring feet to the sitting room door. Isabella's mouth gaped, watching with disbelief, unable to make sense of what was happening—but slowly realizing she would not be present to witness whatever Marie intended to do should she remain where she was. Quickly, Isabella sprang to her feet, hurrying to follow in the older woman's wake.

She bit back questions as she turned into the corridor and saw Marie was already on the stairs, climbing to the upper floors. Isabella lifted her skirts, quickening her pace, a dart of worry furrowing her brow as she wondered whether Sheil was already abed, or would soon appear on the landing marveling at the commotion of the storm outside.

But the landing remained empty, and Isabella turned her gaze from Sheil's closed door to see Marie was at the threshold of her own bedchamber, her hand sure on the knob as she twisted it and entered.

Isabella gathered her skirts in her hands before hurrying up the remaining steps, eyes wide as she realized she was panting with breathlessness. She hesitated at the open door, marveling that only hours before she had been within this very room full of anticipation and nervousness for the assembly ball in Penzance. It seemed like a very long time ago now, those memories already blurred and golden in her mind, this new present her only reality.

Sucking in a breath for courage, Isabella crossed the threshold, uncertain of what she would find inside.

Her eyes took only a moment to make out Marie's figure, still as a statue next to the bed, white head bowed. "_Grandmére_?" Isabella whispered, desperate to make sense of what was happening.

To her relief, Marie lifted her head and her countenance was returned to the canny, impatient expression she had worn throughout the majority of their conversation belowstairs. Her brow was faintly furrowed, her mismatched eyes narrow as she glanced back to the floor. "I sense it there—but you must fetch it. If I kneel, I will not be able to rise again."

Isabella's own brow furrowed with confusion though she moved to do as her grandmother bid, stepping forward and stooping to the floorboards. There had always been a spot next to her bed that creaked complainingly when trod upon; Isabella had avoided it the night she'd felt the compulsion to duck out of doors, certain Sheil would have woken had she heard the tell-tale sound indicating her charge was awake and about.

Marie stepped aside, her expression easing into knowing calm as Isabella pried at the board with her uninjured hand. It was only as she fluttered her bandaged hand within the gap that Isabella realized doubt still lived in her heart—that, somehow, she had not accepted the truth of what Marie had traveled so far to tell her. For her lips parted in surprise as her fingertips grasped the delicate edges of a piece of paper, dusty and gritty with how long it had lain beneath the boards. As she carefully eased the epistle from beneath its hiding place and brought it close to her gaze in the gloom of the room, she saw it was a letter, folded into thirds and sealed shut. Despite the passage of years, there was no mistaking the fine, swirling hand that marked the outer edge of the letter, nor the name written by that hand.

_Isabella_.

She could not help staggering to the bed, her free hand at her lips as tears blurred her gaze. Then, eagerly, she slid a finger nail along the seal and unfolded the sheet, her gaze hungry for the words of the woman who had raised her.

_My daughter,_

_Words of apology seem inadequate, my darling girl. What's more, I am not entirely certain, even in this moment, that my writing them would be sincere. For I sought to spare you, Isabella. From the curiosity and from the gossip and from the speculation. From the knowledge you yourself would hold that the curiosity and gossip and speculation are warranted, and from the certainty that you are never fully a part of the life around you._

_The gifts are not aptly named. For while they are a gift, they are also, like any power, a burden, too. To be so sensitive to things that cannot be fully explained, to be the subject of scrutiny, to watch in helplessness as your abilities fail a child too ill to benefit from your efforts—these are all burdens. To know your husband is gone before his major has touched quill to paper—how can this be a gift?_

_So I sought to spare you, however impossible a task. For I suspect it is impossible, Isabella. I suspect, though you have not inherited my gaze, you have inherited much else. But perhaps, even then, you will not suffer the isolation your mother suffered. Perhaps you will find a path that will not force you to conceal the truth from the one you love most._

_Know, though, whatever the path, I love you, and in my love for you, sought to spare you what I suffered._

_Be safe, my daughter. And what's more, be happy._

_Maman_

Isabella did not first realize Marie's hand was on her shoulder until she began to shake with the force of her tears, and the older woman's grip grew firm, trying to steady her. Though the words in Renée's letter were echoing in her head, Isabella somehow made out the soothing words her grandmother was speaking. "Shh, _ma fille_. You are very like her, you know, for all of your coloring being that of your father."

Isabella tried to shake her head, tried to find the words to deny the thing that Sheil had always claimed to be true; there had never been a time when she could see any resemblance between the light, fey woman who had been her mother and herself. But Marie's voice grew gruff and insistent. "Perhaps you lack her curls and the shape of her face, but I can see her quickness in your gaze, and her insouciance in how your lips twitch when you think of something that amuses you." Isabella's neck bowed, hiding her face in her hands, unable to stop the tears which fell in earnest again.

"Ah, child, take heart," Marie murmured, her strong hand squeezing Isabella's shoulder once again. "Take heart, _ma fille_." She sighed deeply, a weary sound. "Though I cannot stay to do what Renée should have done," she paused. "You are not alone." Isabella tried to nod though her eyes were still damp, knowing she should take courage in what her grandmother said as she wiped at the tears staining her cheeks. She had Sheil. Though she chafed beneath the former nursemaid's care, Isabella knew Sheil's concern for her came from genuine love and affection.

Only, Marie was shaking her white head, her gaze both knowing and sad as she spoke. "You mistake my meaning, _ma fille_, though the servant loves you like her own." When she shook her head again, the motion was rueful. "The gentleman with black eyes—he hides much but you need not fear him."

Isabella's head rose, her eyes wide and dry with disbelief. But Marie merely regarded her calmly, as though nothing were amiss in her mentioning a man Isabella knew the older woman could not have possibly met, nor expressing her trust in his character.

Marie continued, undeterred by Isabella's shocked expression. "If you remember this, all will be well."


End file.
